(ARTLEY 


*^ 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 


BY 

NALBRO  BARTLEY 

Author  of  "A  Woman's  Woman," 
"Paradise  Auction,"  etc. 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1920, 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  &  COMPANY 

(INCOBPOBATED) 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

CHAPTER  I 

The  younger  generation  of  Birge's  Corners  insisted 
that  nothing  exciting  had  happened  since  Abigail  Clergy's 
love  affair  in  1867,  and  the  older  generation  retorted  that 
Thurley  Precore,  who  must  have  been  born  in  Arcadia, 
was  bound  to  create  excitement. 

The  older  generation  were  content  to  have  time  snail 
over  their  doorsteps.  To  their  placid  minds  much  had 
happened  and  was  happening  to  content  any  one  of  nor- 
mal makeup.  Take  the  Hotel  Button  —  what  more  did 
any  one  want  than  that  two-story  establishment  with  ram- 
shackle outbuildings  and  a  crazy  wooden  fence  about  the 
whole  of  it?  Commercial  travellers  making  the  town 
annually  never  complained  about  Prince  Hawkins'  hos- 
pitality or  Mrs.  Prince  Hawkins'  cooking  —  never.  And 
during  one  of  those  comical  cold  spells,  when  twenty  below 
zero  was  registered  on  the  thermometer,  the  younger  gen- 
eration were  mighty  glad  to  end  a  sleigh  ride  before  the 
Hotel  Button,  and  have  one  of  Mrs.  Prince  Hawkins' 
oyster  suppers  —  she  had  been  Lena  Button,  an  only 
child,  and  her  working  like  a  slave  now  ...  I  Also, 
the  upstairs  parlor  with  its  flowered  carpet  and  tortured 
walnut  furniture  and  the  same  square  piano  on  which 
Lena  Button  had  learned  her  "  Battle  of  Prague  " —  the 
younger  generation  never  thought  of  refusing  the  upstairs 
parlor  in  which  to  have  a  wind-up  dance.  None  of  them 
complained  about  the  slowness  of  Birge's  Corners  — 
until  the  next  day  I 

I 

2040684 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

As  for  stores:  there  was  Oyster  Jim's  confectionery 
store  with  a  balcony  overlooking  Lake  Birge,  and  here 
the  younger  generation  gathered  to  eat  ice  cream  and 
drink  cream  soda.  Of  course,  Oyster  Jim's  store  was  not 
like  New  York  tea-rooms  which  some  of  the  younger 
generation  had  visited  and  drawn  unkind  comparisons 
about,  but  the  ice  cream  was  homemade,  and,  if  he  did 
dilute  the  cream,  the  water  from  Lake  Birge  was  about 
as  good  as  there  was  in  the  state;  a  chemist  had  said  so. 
Besides,  Oyster  Jim's  other  specialty  was  canary  birds, 
yellow-throated  songsters  in  every  corner  of  the  balcony, 
and  it  took  a  pretty  smart  man  to  keep  an  ice  cream  store 
and  raise  canary  birds,  to  say  nothing  of  selling  Ford  sup- 
plies to  distressed  tourists!  Then  there  was  Submit 
Curler's  general  store.  She  was  always  taking  maga- 
zines to  keep  "up  to  snuff" — and  as  for  patterns  of 
ginghams  and  calicos,  there  were  no  prettier  patterns 
to  be  had.  When  the  younger  generation  said  why  did 
Miss  Curler  insist  on  selling  horse  whips  and  lanterns  and 
year-old  hard  candies  and  marbles  and  soft  soap  and 
acorn  picture  frames  and  knitted  things  she  made  in  be- 
tween rings  of  the  bell,  and  why  didn't  she  have  decent 
silk  waists  and  neckties  and  stop  calling  you  by  your 
first  name  long  after  your  engagement  had  been  an- 
nounced, to  say  nothing  of  wrapping  things  in  newspapers 
and  expecting  you  to  carry  them  through  the  streets  — 
the  older  generation  sniffed  in  answer  that  Submit  Curler 
was  one  of  God's  own,  and,  although  Algebra  might  have 
been  the  capital  of  a  foreign  country  as  far  as  she  knew, 
she  had  crooned  countless  teething  babies  to  sleep  to  give 
their  mothers  a  rest,  and  helped  lay  out  the  dead  and 
then  stayed  "  behind  "  to  have  a  piping  hot  dinner  ready 
when  the  mourners  "  came  back." 

Of  course  the  younger  generation  were  not  silenced  by 

2 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

this.  They  began  a  complaint  about  the  weekly  paper, 
a  ridiculous  affair  running  three-year-old  detective  serials 
and  month-old  national  happenings,  telling  whose  veranda 
was  to  be  painted  and  who  had  bought  a  pair  of  new  ear- 
laps  !  To  which  the  older  generation  magnanimously  re- 
marked that,  as  long  as  "  Ali  Baba  "  and  Betsey  Pilrig 
had  their  health,  there  would  be  no  need  for  an  up-to-date 
daily  newspaper.  One  did  not  have  to  wait  until  news 
was  gathered,  edited  and  printed.  Ali  Baba,  Abby 
Clergy's  coachman,  and  Betsey  Pilrig,  who  lived  in  the 
yellow  house  across  from  Thurley  Precore's  box-car 
wagon,  kept  the  village  informed  of  every  happening  in 
such  rapid-fire  fashion  that  the  need  for  a  daily  sheet  was 
never  experienced ! 

Granting  this  —  where  was  there  any  society?  To 
which  the  older  generation  answered,  indignantly,  that 
nowhere  in  the  United  States  of  America  HAD  there 
existed  such  society,  elegance  and  grandeur  as  at  the  sum- 
mer colony  on  Birge's  Lake,  and,  if  those  days  were  con- 
temporary with  Abigail  Clergy's  great  sorrow,  what  mat- 
tered it?  The  aroma  of  past  grandeur  lingers  long,  and 
even  yet  the  stately  mansions  with  endless  turrets  and 
towers  stood  about  the  shores  of  the  lake  causing  one 
to  respect  their  closed  shutters. 

To  this  the  younger  generation,  although  protesting 
that  the  society  was  entirely  a  memory,  had  no  reply. 
For  the  older  generation  had  spoken  the  truth.  About 
the  perfect  little  lake,  an  emerald  in  its  coloring  and 
flanked  by  pungent  pine  woods  and  an  amphitheater  of 
tiny  hills,  some  half  a  century  before,  had  been  built  the 
summer  homes  of  the  oldest  of  America's  aristocracy. 
In  those  days  when  Birge's  Corners  was  but  a  post 
office  and  a  few  stray  dogs,  the  lake  had  been  an  oasis 
for  the  tired  rich;  here  families  came  to  grow  tanned 

3 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

and  rosy,  while  love  affairs  ripened  and  wedding  bells 
were  listened  for  and  the  elders  sat  back  in  pleased 
approval.  The  rich  owned  the  lake,  so  the  saying  went 
—  but  Daniel  Birge  owned  the  Corners  and  the  rich! 
Daniel  Birge  was  steward  to  the  rich.  If  they  desired  an 
improvement  in  the  way  of  carriage  sheds  or  certain 
grades  of  merchandise  which  were  daily  necessities,  Dan- 
iel Birge,  founder  of  Birge's  Corners,  saw  to  it  that  it 
was  accomplished.  The  lake  had  been  named  for  his 
great-great-grandfather,  who  discovered  it,  and,  when 
the  richest  of  the  rich  suggested  that  "  Birge's  Lake  "  was 
a  trifle  commonplace  name  for  such  a  bit  of  paradise  — 
"  Fairy  Lake  "  would  be  more  appropriate  —  they  met 
their  Waterloo.  This  was  the  only  thing  Daniel  Birge 
refused  the  rich  —  the  re-naming  of  the  little  lake. 

"  Great-great-grandpap  found  it,  and  it'll  keep  his 
name,"  was  all  he  said. 

And  because  Dan  Birge  "  had  a  way  with  him  " —  even 
as  his  grandson,  the  present  Dan  Birge,  had  a  "  way  with 
him  " —  the  summer  colony  never  questioned  the  matter 
again.  Birge's  Lake  and  Birge's  Corners  were  chris- 
tened for  eternity. 

Meanwhile,  middle  class  inhabitants  came  to  live  at 
the  Corners,  houses  multiplied  from  season  to  season,  the 
Hotel  Button  came  into  existence,  as  did  rival  black- 
smiths' shops  and  Submit  Curler's  store.  Even  a  travel- 
ling dentist  took  rooms  at  Betsey  Pilrig's  for  every  Thurs- 
day, and  the  Methodist  and  Baptist  churches  ran  a  race 
as  to  the  height  of  their  steeples. 

Time  soon  enough  changed  the  ways  and  the  likings  of 
the  rich.  The  old  homes  came  to  be  rented  out  or  closed 
for  two  and  three  years  at  a  time.  Some  were  put  on  the 
market,  but  no  one  ever  bought  them.  Well-built  man- 
sions they  were,  with  twenty  and  thirty  rooms  and 

4 


grounds  extending  back  for  half  an  acre,  stables  with 
rooms  for  the  coachman's  family,  private  boat  landings, 
romantic  rustic  arbors  where  tea  used  to  be  served,  and 
summer  houses  with  lacey  latticework  where  debutantes 
gathered  to  read  Tennyson  and  their  own  love  letters. 

Birge's  Corners  built  up  so  rapidly  that  the  decline  of 
Birge's  Lake  was  scarcely  noticed.  One  by  one  the  fam- 
ilies stopped  coming  to  the  lake  for  the  summer.  There 
were  newer,  more  luxurious  or  more  isolated  places  — 
their  younger  generation  complained  of  the  lack  of  thrill- 
ing events.  The  "  ghost  village "  it  was  truthfully 
called,  house  after  house  lying  idle,  save  for  stray  spar- 
rows or  squirrels  who  burrowed  snugly  in  the  eaves. 

"  Ali  Baba  " — Joshua  Maples  in  writing  —  was  made 
general  caretaker.  One  by  one  the  families  left  him  in 
charge  of  the  ghost  mansions.  He  knew  just  which  room 
it  was  where  the  Confederate  captain  married  the  Boston 
belle,  and  how  many  roses  had  been  used  in  the  decora- 
tions. He  could  tell  the  exact  spot  in  the  Luddington 
house  where  young  Luddington  had  shot  himself  —  the 
night  before  his  theft  of  bank  funds  should  be  made  pub- 
lic. 

A  stranger  could  not  point  at  any  of  the  deserted  man- 
sions but  what  Ali  Baba,  taking  off  his  tattered  hat  and 
scratching  his  white,  curly  head  philosophically,  would 
summon  a  word  picture  of  the  past,  when  the  curly  head 
had  been  black  and  the  wrinkled  face  smooth  and  boyish. 

'  They  say  society  has  all  gone  to  live  at  Newport 
in  the  summer,"  Ali  Baba  would  summarize.  "  Well, 
mebbe  they  has.  All  I  know  is  this  —  that  right  here 
at  Birge's  Lake  from  1860  to  1890  —  for  nigh  thirty 
years,  there  wasn't  no  place  in  the  land  that  could  boast 
of  entertaining  any  finer.  We've  had  three  presidents 
come  fishing  —  right  there  by  that  landing  —  and  Patti 

5 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

sang  '  The  Last  Rose  of  Summer  '  in  that  big  house  over 
there  —  the  one  with  the  gables.  I  passed  the  punch 
afterwards  —  yes,  sir,  right  up  to  time  I  was,  in  a  new 
dress  suit  Major  McAndrews  bought  me.  I  never 
heard  nobody  sing  as  she  did  —  and  the  wimmen  said  her 
pink  satin  train  was  six  feet  long.  Well,  I'll  take  that 
back  —  I  have  heard  it  sung  as  good  and  mebbe  better 
by  a  girl  right  in  this  village  —  a  nightingale  girl  named 
Thurley  Precore. 

"That  Swiss  cha-/#y  over  there  was  built  in  1878  by 
Hugo  Fiske  —  he  and  his  bride  were  going  to  come 
here  summers  —  she  died  the  day  before  the  wedding, 
and  he  come  on  here,  as  soon  as  she  was  buried,  and 
stayed  all  alone,  his  wedding  bags  and  finery  stacked  in 
the  hall  and  never  unpacked.  He  kept  trampin', 
trampin',  trampin'  through  the  woods  and  around  the 
lake,  never  speakin'  to  a  soul.  By  and  by,  when  he  had 
walked  it  all  out,  he  come  to  the  livery  and  asked  to  be 
taken  to  the  train.  I  happened  to  be  handy  then,  and  so 
I  drove  him  over.  When  I  helped  him  out  and  toted  his 
bags,  he  says  to  me,  '  Ali  Baba,  tell  Abby  Clergy  I  under- 
stand ' —  and  he  never  come  back  again." 

Here  the  old  man  would  become  uncommunicative, 
and,  when  the  stranger  would  idly  ask,  "  Who  was  Abby 
Clergy?  " —  all  the  answer  would  be  was: 

"  His  neighbor." 

Then  the  stranger  might  suggest  the  danger  of  bur- 
glars. To  which  Ali  Baba  would  answer: 

"  I  guess  you  don't  know  these  parts  —  oh,  we  got  a 
few  burglars  —  robins  and  chipmunks  and  that  kind. 

If  the  stranger  asked  u  Why  are  you  called  Ali  Baba?  " 
looking  with  interest  at  his  rosy  old  face,  Ali  Baba  would 
bid  him  good-by  without  further  ado  and  make  his  way 
homeward,  past  Birge's  Corners  to  Birge's  Lake  to  a 

6 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

certain  red  brick  mansion,  with  every  shuttered  window 
fastened  tight,  save  those  at  the  back,  and  the  gleam 
of  lights  showing  from  upper  front  windows.  AH  Baba 
would  find  his  way  to  the  back  of  the  house,  tiptoeing 
meekly  inside  an  immaculate  summer  kitchen  to  find  his 
widowed  sister,  Hopeful  Whittier,  to  whom  he  would 
say: 

"  Land  sakes  and  Mrs.  Davis,  I  got  talkin'  again  over 
to  Oyster  Jim's  —  a  fellow  in  one  of  those  gosh-darn 
leather  coats  —  seems  to  me  he  never  would  stop  askin' 
questions!  " 

Hopeful,  stern  and  forbidding  in  her  slate-colored 
calico,  would  answer,  "  AH  Baba,  do  you  know  Miss 
Abby  has  been  waiting  —  it  is  PAST  four  o'clock?  " 

Without  delay  AH  Baba  would  rush  to  the  barn  and  in 
magical  order  arrange  a  shining,  old-style  harness  on  an 
iron  gray  mare,  hitch  the  same  to  an  old-style,  closed 
coupe  padded  with  scarlet  silk,  shades  of  past  glory!  On 
the  coupe  door  was  a  monogram  —  A.  C.,  entwined  with 
plumes  and  fleur-de-lis.  Donning  a  black  frock  coat  and 
silk  hat,  both  slightly  green  when  the  sun  met  them  unex- 
pectedly, Ali  Baba  would  mount  the  coach  seat,  and,  with 
a  grave  "  Come  on,  Melba,"  to  the  mare,  would  cause 
her  to  stalk  sedately  out  of  the  barn,  down  the  gravel 
path  to  the  side  porch  where  the  carved  door  would  open 
and  a  peculiar  little  person,  seemingly  very  old,  would 
step  outside.  She  would  be  dressed  in  a  long  out-of-date 
black  coat  and  a  round,  felt  hat  fastened  under  her  chin 
by  an  elastic.  Her  shoes  would  be  rough  and  shabby, 
and  her  gray  hair  betray  itself  as  fastened  in  an  unbecom- 
ing "  button  "  under  her  hat.  As  she  would  put  one 
hand  on  the  coupe  door,  it  would  show  itself  to  be  yel- 
lowed and  feeble.  She  never  wore  gloves,  but  the  most 
beautiful  rings  in  the  world  sparkled  innocently  on  the 

7 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

small  fingers,  pigeon  blood  rubies,  white  water  diamonds, 
a  black  pearl,  emeralds  and  sapphires,  and  on  her  thumb 
was  a  great  cameo  ring  held  in  place  by  a  jewelled  guard. 

Around  this  small  person's  neck  would  be  a  thick,  old- 
style  braided  watch  chain,  at  the  end  of  which  dangled 
glassless,  gold  lorgnettes  which  she  never  used.  As  she 
lifted  her  face  to  Ali  Baba's  respectfully  inclining  ear 
to  say  the  same  phrase  she  had  said  for  thirty-five  years 
— "  An  hour's  drive,  Ali  Baba,  not  too  fast," —  one 
could  see  that  she  had  dark,  restless  eyes  and  a  thin, 
sharp  face,  a  flexible  mouth  drawn  into  a  melancholy 
expression  and  a  bulging  forehead  bespeaking  more 
brains  than  are  usual. 

The  coupe  door  would  close  and  down  would  come  the 
faded  scarlet  curtains.  Ali  Baba,  laying  the  whip  a  full 
eight  inches  above  Melba's  iron-gray  back,  would  then 
effect  a  triumphant  exit  out  of  the  driveway. 

So  it  was  that  Miss  Clergy,  sole  occupant  of  the  ghost 
village,  drove  at  four  each  day  of  the  year,  rain  or  shine, 
save  when  the  snow  piled  too  high  to  let  the  old-fashioned 
sledge  proceed.  "  An  hour's  drive,  Ali  Baba,  not  too 
fast  "  had  become  a  village  slogan. 

No  one  ever  questioned  Ali  Baba  concerning  Miss 
Clergy,  or  commented  on  the  appearance  of  the  coupe 
with  its  white-haired  driver  and  curtained  occupant,  until, 
in  the  year  nineteen  hundred  and  twelve,  something  else 
•very  thrilling  happened  in  Birge's  Corners,  something 
which  made  Abigail  Clergy's  love  tragedy  seem  remote, 
scarcely  worth  remembering. 

The  person  concerned  in  the  event  had  been  told  the 
real  story  of  Abigail  Clergy,  and  why  Joshua  Maples  was 
called  "  Ali  Baba,"  and  why  Miss  Clergy  drove  at  four, 
always  alone  and  with  the  curtains  drawn,  and  why  the 
children  were  afraid  of  her  and  called  her  witch,  trying 

8 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

to  make  their  mothers  admit  that  the  Clergy  house  was 
haunted.  That  person  was  Thurley  Precore  —  born  in 
Arcadia,  the  Corners  admitted,  although  they  did  not  call 
it  by  that  name.  They  said,  "  Wherever  Thurley  Pre- 
corne  managed  to  get  that  smile  and  face  and  voice  of 
hers  and  to  sing  more  and  more  like  an  angel  when  every 
one  knew  — "  and  so  forth  and  so  on,  the  deduction  ar- 
rived at  being  that  God  had  let  Himself  realize  His 
dream  of  beauty  when  He  created  Thurley  Precore  — 
Thurley  with  the  most  worthless,  indifferent  parents 
about  whom  the  Corners  had  ever  heard  tell. 

Thurley  was  twenty  when  the  "  thrilling  event "  hap- 
pened. But  her  advent  into  the  Corners  ten  years  before 
is  worth  recording.  To  the  older  generation,  in  fact,  it 
had  been  a  happening  of  great  interest,  and,  had  it  not 
taken  place,  the  really  thrilling  event  in  1912  could  never 
have  occurred.  But  younger  generations  never  consider 
the  law  of  cause  and  effect,  so  they  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders in  impatience  when  their  elders  insisted  on  re-telling 
to  out-of-town  visitors  how  Thurley  Precore  first  "  sang 
for  her  supper." 


CHAPTER  II 

There  had  driven  into  the  stableyard  of  the  Hotel 
Button  a  queer  box-car  wagon  on  rickety  yellow  wheels, 
unwillingly  pulled  by  tired  nags.  The  wagon  had  a 
hope-to-die  roof  and  a  smokestack.  On  the  driver's  seat 
was  a  ragged  man  and  an  impetuous  young  person  in 
faded  blue  gingham.  The  impetuous  young  person  was 
driving  and  singing  "  God  Be  With  Us  Till  We  Meet 
Again" — unconscious  of  the  beauty  of  her  voice. 

Her  father  nodded  approval,  as  the  song  ended  and 
the  wagon  halted  before  the  stable  door.  As  the  story 
goes,  young  Dan  Birge  and  Lorraine  McDowell,  the 
minister's  only  child,  were  playing  hop-scotch  in  imminent 
danger  of  the  horses'  feet.  They  paused  to  stare  at  the 
newcomers.  The  young  person  had  begun  in  business- 
like fashion: 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  the  pro-pry-e-tor.  My  name  is 
Thurley,  Thurley  Precore,  and  this  is  my  dad.  He's 
awful  sick.  We  come  all  the  way  from  Boulder,  out  in 
Colorado  —  I  guess  you  don't  know  where  that  is,  but  it's 
miles'n'  miles  from  here.  My  ma  is  sick,  too, —  she's 
lyin'  down  inside,  and  she'll  have  to  see  a  doctor  right  off. 
Where  is  the  pro-pry-e-tor?  Ain't  you  listening  to  me? 
We  sell  tinware  —  why,  say,  our  pots  and  pans  can't  be 
beat  —  nor  matched.  Even  the  gypsies  said  so  when  we 
camped  with  'em  at  Lisbon,  Ohio.  Isn't  it  so,  pa?" 
turning  her  flushed,  lovely  face  to  the  man  beside  her. 

"I  guess  if  you  says  it  is  —  it  is,"  he  chuckled. 
"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  added  to  the  astonishment 

10 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

of  the  boy  and  girl,  "  what  Thurley  says  goes  —  she's 
been  runnin'  this  family  for  enough  years  to  prove  that 
she  kin,"  the  chuckle  ended  in  a  hollow  cough. 

Then,  the  wretched  lace-curtained  window  was  pushed 
open,  and  a  woman's  faded  face  appeared,  a  vapid,  sense- 
less face  with  dyed  blond  hair  and  china-doll  blue  eyes;  a 
wisp  of  pink  ribbon  showed  about  her  drawn  throat. 

"  Dear  me,  Cornelius,  don't  stand  here  all  day,"  she 
began  fretfully.  "  Thurley,  come  right  inside  and  git  on 
some  decent  duds.  I  guess  folks  think,  because  we're 
travellin'  in  a  wagon,  that  we  ain't  no  better  than  gypsies 
—  well,  every  one  has  their  high  days  AND  their  low 
ones.  If  my  father  could  see  me  now !  "  Her  thin  hands 
loaded  with  cheap  rings  lifted  into  view  and  twelve-year- 
old  Daniel  Birge,  counted  as  the  gallows'  brightest  pros- 
pect, nudged  Lorraine  McDowell,  the  only  girl  he  ever 
played  with  —  because  his  father  made  him  —  until  they 
both  laughed. 

"  Of  all  the  bringin'  up !  "  floated  out  in  thin,  melan- 
choly tones.  "  Cornelius,  are  you  goin'  to  set  there  like 
a  bump  on  a  log  and  have  me  laffed  at?  " 

But  Thurley  had  jumped  down  and  with  clenched  fists 
approached  Daniel  and  Lorraine.  She  paused,  woman- 
like, to  give  vent  to  her  opinion  before  she  should  strike. 
Just  then  Prince  Hawkins  and  his  wife  and  Betsey  Pilrig 
and  her  lame  grandchild,  Philena,  gathered  as  spectators. 

They  said  afterwards  that  all  the  devils  in  the  world 
seemed  flashing  from  the  strange  child's  blue  eyes.  She 
was  barefoot  and  ragged;  her  dress  far  too  short  for  her 
long-legged,  awkward  self,  and  her  mop  of  brown  hair 
in  a  disorderly  braid.  But  she  had  a  fine,  strong  body, 
despite  the  ragged  dress,  and,  although  she  possessed  not 
a  single  regular  feature,  there  was  a  prophecy  of  true 
greatness  in  her  face. 

ii 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Daniel  and  Lorraine  stared  at  the  brown,  clenched 
fists.  They  were  the  ordinary,  well-dressed,  well-nour- 
ished children  to  be  seen  in  such  a  backwoods  town  as 
Birge's  Corners. 

"  Now  you  laff  again,"  Thurley  commanded.  "  Laff 
—  go  on  —  let  me  hear  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  I  got  a 
sick  pa  and  ma,  and  we  certainly  have  played  hard  luck 
all  the  way  from  Boulder,  Colorado.  I  guess,  if  you  had 
any  manners,  you'd  not  laff  at  us.  Not  if  we  do  peddle 
tinware  and  tell  fortunes  by  tea  leaves.  We  ain't  always 
done  it,  and  we  ain't  always  goin'  to.  But  we're  in  hard 
luck  —  don't  you  understand?  And  don't  you  dare  to 
laff  when  my  ma  talks  or  call  us  gypsies.  We're  white 
folks,  but  we're  just  a  little  bit  discouraged,"  her  angry 
voice  betrayed  a  quiver. 

The  others  had  gathered  nearer  to  hear  what  was  being 
said,  looking  up  at  the  driver's  seat  to  where  the  wreck  of 
a  man  sat  smoking  his  corn-cob  pipe,  secure  in  the  defense 
established  by  his  small  virago. 

"  I  tell  you  right  now,"  Thurley's  mother  supple- 
mented, "  that,  when  I  had  my  health  and  was  on  the 
stage,  I  could  have  bought  and  sold  the  whole  town.  My 
father  was  a  real  Kentucky  colonel,  and  I  was  brought  up 
to  never  lift  a  finger  — " 

At  which  Thurley's  father  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
long  enough  to  say,  "  Shut  up,  Jen;  let  the  kid  give  it  to 
'em  —  she  knows  how." 

Thurley  took  up  the  burden  of  defense.  "  We  want 
the  pro-pry-e-tor.  We  want  to  camp  here  to-night,  and 
get  some  vittles  and  we'll  give  him  the  loveliest  new 
tins  —  as  bright  as  silver.  Where  is  the  pro-pry-e-tor?  " 

Prince  Hawkins  and  his  wife,  taking  pity  on  the  child, 
came  to  her  rescue. 

"  Oh,  pshaw,  I  don't  believe  we  want  none  of  them 

12 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

tins !  "  Mrs.  Hawkins  said.  "  We  got  more  now  than  we 
ever  use." 

Tears  gathered  in  Thurley's  eyes.  She  turned  her 
head  so  they  would  remain  a  secret. 

"Maybe  you'd  like  your  fortunes  told?"  suggested 
Mrs.  Precore  from  the  window  ledge.  "  Honest,  I  cer- 
tainly have  told  some  remarkable  things  —  why,  a  Chi- 
cago finan-seer  wanted  me  to  settle  in  Chicago  so  he  could 
get  my  advice  as  to  the  stock  exchange  — "  Here  she 
gave  way  to  coughing  and  vanished  completely. 

u  My  ma  and  pa  is  too  sick  to  work,"  Thurley  added, 
determined  to  gain  her  point.  "  I  got  to  get  a  doctor  for 
them  to-morrow.  We  was  headin'  for  a  city,  but  we  sort 
of  run  out  of  supplies  — "  She  bit  her  underlip. 

"  Maybe  you'd  like  a  stewpan?  "  she  coaxed  of  Betsey 
Pilrig. 

"  Take  it,  granny,"  Philena  whispered. 

"  Lemme  see  it,"  Betsey  answered. 

Thurley  tore  inside  the  wagon  to  re-appear  with  a 
motley  collection  of  flimsy  tins,  bent  and  battered  from 
their  long  journey. 

A  titter  ran  around  the  crowd.  With  the  courage 
born  of  despair  Thurley  threw  back  her  head  and  cried 
out,  "Well,  then,  if  nobody  wants  to  buy  anything  —  I 
kin  sing  for  our  supper!  " 

"  All  right,  you  poor  lamb,"  Mrs.  Prince  Hawkins 
answered,  "  sing  for  us,  and  we'll  see  that  you  get  a  good 
hot  supper." 

Thurley's  father  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  again 
to  say,  "  She  kin  sing,  ma'am." 

So  Thurley,  mounting  a  step  of  the  wagon,  began  "  Be- 
lieve Me,  If  All  Those  Endearing  Young  Charms,"  the 
sun  shining  on  her  dark  head,  lighting  up  unexpected 
glints  of  Titian  red.  A  passing  teamster  paused  to  listen, 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

and  applauded  when  she  had  finished,  and  the  circle  of 
critics  were  awed  and  quiet.  For  the  ragged  child  seemed 
to  vanish;  she  was  merely  the  instrument  for  the  glorious 
voice  unhampered  by  artificial  notions.  Thurley  sang  as 
she  had  always  done,  winning  for  the  inefficient  parents 
— "life's  sinking  ships,"  some  one  had  called  them  — 
their  food  and  keep. 

"  Sing  us  another,  and  you  can  stay  another  day," 
Prince  Hawkins  called  out  as  the  applause  ceased. 

Thurley  responded  graciously  with : 

There  was  an  old  man  and  he  had  a  wooden  leg, 

He  had  no  tobacco,  nor  tobacco  could  he  beg. 

Another  old  man  had  a  wooden  box, 

And  he  always  kept  tobacco  in  the  old  tobacco  box. 

Said  the  first  old  man,  "  Gimme  a  chew." 

Said  the  second  old  man,  "  Durned  if  I  do. 

Take  my  advice  and  save  up  your  rocks 

And  you'll  always  have  tobacco  in  the  old  tobacco  box !  " 

"  I  know  dozens,"  she  announced  happily,  as  she 
hopped  down  on  to  the  ground,  "  but,  if  you  don't  mind, 
I'd  rather  have  supper  now  and  sing  some  more  to- 
morrow." 

"  Drive  into  that  shed,"  Prince  Hawkins  told  her. 
"  You  come  around  to  the  kitchen  —  I  guess  your  pa  can 
unhitch,  can't  he?  " 

Thurley  laughed.  "  Dear,  no  —  makes  him  cough  — 
he's  got  a  pain  in  his  side,  too.  I  sang  four  songs  in  the 
last  town  for  painkiller,  but  it  didn't  do  him  any  good  — 
over  there,  pa,  dear  —  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minnit."  She 
watched  the  rickety  wagon  creak  towards  the  shed. 

Betsey  Pilrig  and  Philena  crowded  about  Thurley. 
"  Is  your  mother  awful  sick,  too?  "  Betsey  asked. 

Thurley  nodded.  "  Always  been  sick  —  guess  she  al- 

14 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ways  will  be.  Pa  has  been  sick,  too  •. —  ever  since  I  re- 
member anything." 

"Where  are  their  folks?"  Mrs.  Hawkins  demanded. 
"  Somebody  ought  to  look  after  them  I  " 

"  Guess  they  haven't  any,"  Thurley  answered  easily. 
u  Guess  they're  all  dead  —  or  something." 

She  looked  reproachfully  at  Daniel  and  Lorraine,  who 
had  retreated  several  feet  away.  "  Guess  you  won't  laff 
again,"  she  said  imperiously. 

She  passed  them  with  an  absurd  swagger,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  they  saw  her  unhitching  the  tired  nags  with 
the  dexterity  of  a  groom. 

"  I  swan,"  Mrs.  Hawkins  said  to  Betsey  Pilrig,  w  that 
mite  carin'  for  those  worthless  beggars  —  gettin'  her  to 
sell  their  old  pans  —  did  you  ever  see  such  blue  eyes  and 
did  you  ever,  ever  hear  any  one  sing  like  that?  She'll  be 
famous,  if  she  don't  starve  to  death  takin'  care  of  them 
first!" 

"  Granny,"  said  Philena  Pilrig, —  being  lame  Philena 
never  played  with  other  children — "I  love  that  little 
girl;  ask  her  to  come  see  me." 

"  She  don't  have  time  for  visiting,  I  guess,"  her  grand- 
mother answered.  "  We'll  send  her  something  nice  t5 
eat;  she'd  rather  have  that." 

Behind  the  woodpile  Daniel  and  Lorraine  were  talking 
it  over. 

u  I'm  sorry  I  laughed,"  Lorraine  said  penitently. 
"  You  made  me  —  my  father  don't  let  me  laugh  at  poor 
folks." 

"  Because  he's  a  minister  —  I  laughed  because  it  was 
funny,"  Dan  retorted,  his  dark  eyes  flashing,  "  and  I  bet 
now  that  —  what's  her  name?  —  Thurley  would  have 
laughed  too,  if  she  could  have  looked  in  a  glass  and  seen 
herself.  I  like  her.  I  bet  she  wouldn't  cry,  if  she  got 

15 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

lost  in  the  woods."     This  with  a  reproachful  expression. 

Lorraine  moved  nearer  him.  "  Dan,  I  didn't  really 
cry;  I  was  just  nervous.  Maybe  I  can  do  things  this  girl 
can't;  anyhow,  I  don't  go  around  in  a  ragged  dress  and 
my  hair  all  rumpled,"  and  she  smoothed  the  pattern  of 
her  pink  frock  proudly.  She  was  fair-haired  with  dove- 
colored  eyes  and  tiny,  dainty  features. 

Dan  did  not  answer.  Lorraine  touched  his  arm. 
"  Are  you  mad?  "  she  whispered  earnestly. 

"  Not  mad,  but  you  know,  Lorraine,  I  only  play  with 
you  because  my  father  makes  me  —  because  your  father's 
the  minister  and  pa  thinks  it  looks  well."  Daniel  pos- 
sessed the  aggressive  frankness  of  the  Birge  family,  but 
he  had  no*  acquired  their  customary  diplomacy. 

Lorraine's  underlip  quivered.  "  Wouldn't  you  play 
with  me,  unless  I  was?  "  she  asked  wistfully.  "  I  always 
liked  you  best  of  every  one." 

Daniel  stared  at  her  in  contempt.  "  I  like  you  —  but 
you're  a  girl,  and  I  like  the  gang  better  —  I  bet  though 
that  now  —  what  was  it?  —  Thurley  —  I  bet  Thurley 
would  be  one  of  the  gang,  as  if  she  were  a  fellow." 

"So  you  like  that  ragged  girl?"  Lorraine  asked  in 
alarm. 

Dan  nodded.  "  When  she  sang,  my  heart  beat  loud, 
and  she  looked  at  me  more'n  she  did  the  rest.  I'm  going 
to  tell  her  I'm  sorry  I  laughed." 

Lorraine  turned  to  leave  him.  "  My  father  won't 
want  me  playing  with  you,  Dan,  even  if  your  great-great- 
great-grandfather  did  discover  the  lake  and  your  father 
has  money.  Everybody  knows  your  father  has  a  gam- 
bling room  and  sells  beer  on  Sunday  —  now !  And  if  you 
play  with  a  tin  peddler's  girl,  my  father  won't  let  me 
play  with  you  —  tra-la-la  — "  She  began  singing  shrilly. 

16 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  If  I  was  you,  I  wouldn't  try  to  sing  after  what  we've 
just  heard,"  Dan  flung  back  defiantly,  "  and,  when  your 
father  wants  a  new  roof  on  his  old  church  or  another 
carpet,  he'll  be  glad  enough  to  take  my  father's  saloon 
money." 

With  which  they  parted,  Lorraine  repairing  to  the 
parsonage  with  her  budget  of  woes,  and  Dan  striding 
across  to  the  box-car  wagon,  to  knock  at  the  door. 

Thurley's  mother  appeared.  "What  is  it,  boy?"  she 
demanded  fretfully.  "  Dear  me,  I  was  napping  and  you 
woke  me  up  with  such  a  start  my  head  aches.  Thurley, 
here's  that  boy  that  laffed." 

Dan  took  the  opportunity  to  peer  inside  the  wagon. 
To  his  mind  such  an  existence  would  be  unquestionably 
jolly,  traveling,  traveling,  traveling,  with  no  school,  no 
rules  or  regulations  whatsoever.  He  had  a  good  mind 
to  bind  himself  out  to  the  Precore  family  then  and  there, 
despite  the  fact  of  being  Daniel  Birge's  only  child  and  the 
wealthiest  boy  in  the  place,  as  his  father  often  told  him. 

Inside  the  wagon  was  a  rude  partition.  Thurley  was 
busied  with  something  in  the  front.  The  stock  in  trade  of 
tins  lined  the  walls,  jangling  discordantly  on  the  slightest 
provocation.  Faded  stage  photographs  in  plush  frames 
punctuated  the  row  of  cakepans  from  the  stewing  kettles, 
and  between  the  stewing  kettles  and  the  frying  pans  were 
some  of  Thurley's  contraptions  —  hand-colored  "  ladies," 
which  she  had  cut  from  fashion  books  or  magazines  and 
pasted  on  the  wall.  There  was  a  rickety  lounge  with  a 
red  velvet  "  throw,"  and  an  attempt  at  an  easy  chair,  a 
tiny  oil  stove  and  a  wretched  cupboard  which  resembled 
Mother  Hubbard's  concerning  contents.  Scraps  of  car- 
pet were  on  the  floor,  a  packing  trunk  held  the  Precore 
wardrobe.  An  alarm  clock  minus  one  hand,  but  ticking 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

bravely,  a  copy  of  "  Dreams  and  Premonitions,"  a  palm 
leaf  fan,  an  old  accordion,  some  greasy  playing  cards, 
whiskey  bottles,  kerosene  lamps,  a  green  penholder  with- 
out any  point  and  a  few  yellow-backed  novels  were  the 
ornaments.  The  other  side  of  the  partition  was  evi- 
dently sleeping  quarters. 

Thurley  appeared  to  demand  indignantly,  "Well  — 
going  to  laff  again?  " 

"  Come  outside,"  Dan  ordered,  looking  darkly  at 
Thurley's  mother. 

Thurley  followed,  her  mother  flopping  down  on  the 
lounge  and  calling  to  Cornelius  to  bring  her  some  tea. 

Outside  the  wagon  Daniel  halted,  coming  up  close  to 
Thurley  and  adopting  a  confidential  tone  of  voice. 

"  I'm  Daniel  Birge,"  he  said.  "  My  great-great-great- 
grandfather discovered  this  lake,  and  I  guess  you'll  hear 
all  about  our  family  if  you  stay  here  long  enough.  My 
father  owns  that  brick  building  down  there.  It's  a  sa- 
loon and  a  blacksmith  shop  and  a  real  estate  office  all  in 
one.  Ain't  that  awful?"  This  with  a  boy  grimace. 
u  When  I'm  a  man,  it's  going  to  be  a  big  department 
store.  All  the  good  folks  in  this  town  expect  to  see  me 
go  to  hell."  Being  the  only  boy  officially  allowed  to 
swear,  Dan  waited  for  her  to  be  shocked. 

But  Thurley  settled  herself  on  the  steps  of  the  wagon, 
hugging  her  long  legs  up  under  her.  "  I  suppose 
there'll  be  some  nice  people  in  hell,"  she  commented  by 
way  of  comfort. 

Daniel  drew  out  a  sheet  of  paper.  "  I'm  going  to 
have  Ali  Baba  print  this  in  big  letters  on  a  card  and  stick 
it  up  over  the  barn,  but  maybe  it  would  show  better  if  I 
put  it  on  your  wagon  — 'cause  everybody  will  come  to  see 
that,  and  so  they'd  see  my  card." 

Thurley  read  the  offered  paper: 

18 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Big  Show  to-morrow  in  D.  Birge's  barn 

D.   Birge  manager 

Peple  our  age  —  ten  pins.     Children  —  five  pins 
See  the  great  swinging  man 

and 

Mising  link. 
Come  early  —  but  one  performance  so  why  mis  it  ? 

"Are  you  twelve  years  old?"  was  all  Thurley  com- 
mented, handing  it  back. 

Dan  nodded.  "  Can't  I  put  it  on  your  wagon,  Thur- 
ley? "  He  spoke  her  name  softly,  as  if  uncertain  of  his 
right. 

"  You  haven't  spelled  people  nor  missing  as  it  is  in 
books,"  she  corrected,  a  small  finger  pointing  out  his 
errors. 

"  What  difference  does  that  make?  Folks  know  what 
you  mean.  As  long  as  you  make  folks  know  what  you 
mean,  you  don't  have  to  waste  time  learning  how  to  spell 
and  that  truck  —  my  father  don't  make  me  go  to  school, 
no  siree,  not  if  I  don't  want  to  go;  he  never  went  much 
nor  his  father  nor  his  father  nor  his  father !  "  he  asserted. 
"  We  just  about  own  the  Corners,  too.  There  ain't  any- 
body for  miles  around  that  dares  sass  my  father.  We 
started  the  rich  folks  coming  to  this  lake,  and  we  got  a 
lot  of  their  trade,  and  my  father  can  buy  any  man  in  this 
town  and  then  tell  him  where  to  get  off  —  even  the  minis- 
ter —  so  there  1  What's  the  good  of  spelling  words 
right?" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  however,  Dan  seemed 
anxious  to  meet  with  approval.  When  he  told  the  gang 
his  opinions,  they  listened  respectfully,  for  did  not  Dan 
Birge  have  hip-boots  and  a  bicycle  with  a  coaster  brake,  to 
say  nothing  of  unlimited  spending  money  and  permission 
—  cruel,  unjust  world !  —  to  skip  school  and  go  swim- 

19 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ming  whenever  he  liked!  True,  there  were  things  Dan 
Birge  did  not  have  —  he  had  no  mother,  no  one  to  take 
care  of  him  when  he  was  sick,  no  home  —  but  boys  did 
not  analyze  these  things.  They  only  knew  that  Dan 
Birge  and  his  father  lived  at  the  Hotel  Button  like  real 
travelling-men,  and  young  Dan  wore  better  clothes  and 
swore  more  profusely  and  had  his  own  way  more  than  any 
one  else  in  the  Corners.  His  father,  rough,  shaggy- 
haired,  black-eyed  pirate  that  he  was,  feared  by  all, 
treated  this  only  child  as  something  to  be  revered  and 
indulged  to  the  point  of  absurdity.  He  was  the  only 
human  being  Dan  Birge  had  ever  loved,  for  he  had  not 
loved  the  frail  little  woman  who  had  taken  his  name  — 
and  his  tempers  —  borne  his  son  and  died  with  a  faint 
sigh  of  relief. 

Some  claimed  there  was  Indian  blood  in  Dan  Birge. 
The  ancestor  discovering  the  lake  had  been  a  trapper  and 
hunter,  and  many  said  this  ancestor's  wife  was  no  less 
than  a  Mohawk  squaw.  Certain  it  was  that  Dan's  grace- 
ful self,  with  dark  eyes  and  olive  skin  and  the  mop  of 
blue-black  hair  which  would  not  "  stay  put,"  could  have 
been  called  proof  of  the  rumor,  also  his  loyal,  gener- 
ous actions  towards  the  few  he  liked,  and  the  cold-blooded 
revenge  he  executed  towards  an  enemy.  As  for  the  Birge 
temper,  surely  it  suggested  tomahawks,  scalping  and 
being  burnt  at  the  stake,  with  its  relentless  whirlwind  of 
expression  once  roused.  Dan  Birge's  father  had  the 
sense  to  know  he  was  a  madman  when  he  was  in  a  rage 
and  he  would  lock  himself  in  a  room,  because  he  was  not 
responsible  for  his  actions,  and  wait  until  the  spasm  had 
been  expended. 

His  son  Dan,  having  had  little  to  rouse  his  temper,  had 
not  yet  been  forced  to  such  a  procedure.  Something  in 
the  boy's  dignified  manner,  a  deviation  from  his  father's 

20 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

blustering  self,  would  indicate  that  young  Dan's  temper 
could  remain  at  white  heat,  influencing  his  actions  almost 
to  madness  long  after  his  father's  more  dramatic  rage 
had  died  away  and  humiliating  remorse  set  in. 

There  was,  as  well,  a  superstition  about  the  fate  of  a 
woman  who  would  marry  a  Birge,  for  all  the  Birges' 
wives,  excepting  the  rumored  squaw,  had  been  adoring, 
meek  individuals  who  lived  until  they  bore  a  son  and  then 
died,  leaving  some  one  else  to  bring  him  up ! 

Dan  had  been  raised  by  Submit  Curler,  Oyster  Jim, 
Ali  Baba,  Betsey  Pilrig,  Hopeful  Whittier  —  and  him- 
self. He  began  domineering  over  his  father,  as  a  new 
tyrant  always  wins  easily  over  an  old  one,  before  he  was 
a  year  old.  At  three  the  Corners  looked  aghast  at  his 
antics,  and  shivered  at  his  vocabulary. 

"  Well,"  Thurley  Precore  answered  with  spirit  equal 
to  Dan's,  "  you  think  you're  smart,  because  your  pa  has 
money,  but  there's  lots  of  people  smarter  than  your  pa, 
and  I  think,  if  a  man  has  to  choose  between  knowing  how 
to  spell  and  everything  and  having  a  little  money,  he  bet- 
ter choose  learning.  Because  he'll  be  smart  enough  to 
think  up  a  way  to  take  money  from  the  man  that  don't 
know  anything.  Wait  and  see.  You  better  go  to  school 
while  you  got  the  chance  and  learn  —  you'll  need  it  some 
day.  My  goodness,  I  wisht  we'd  ever  stop  in  one  place 
long  enough  to  let  me  go  to  school.  I  have  to  just  grab 
for  all  I  know.  The  longest  we  stay  anywheres  is  win- 
ters —  out  in  Iowa  —  and  an  old  hoss  thief,  Aggie  Tim, 
traveled  with  us  for  awhile  and  he  taught  me  my  tables 
and  lightnin'  calculating.  I  bet  you  don't  know  any  —  I 
bet  I  know  more'n  you  do  — " 

"  I  bet  you  don't,"  Dan  retorted. 

"  Name  the  presidents  of  the  United  States,"  pointing 
an  accusing  finger  at  him. 

21 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  McKinley  —  but  he's  shot  and  we  got  Roosevelt," 
Daniel  bragged. 

"  I  mean  from  the  start  of  this  country  —  Washing- 
ton—" 

"  Oh,  sure,  everybody  knows  about  him,  he  never  told 
a  lie  —  like  fun  he  didn't  —  we  don't  have  school  on  his 
birthday.  But  I  never  have  to  go  to  school,  if  I  don't 
want  to.  I  can  stay  in  bed  until  nine  o'clock  and  have 
pork  sausage  and  griddle  cakes  and  coffee  sent  up  to  my 
room.  I  can  make  Mrs.  Hawkins  send  'em  up,  even  if 
she  puts  it  on  the  bill  —  my  father  lets  me  and  he  gives 
me  a  dollar  at  a  time  and  lets  me  spend  it  as  I  like. 
Sometimes  he  gives  me  beer  to  drink,  and  he  takes  me  to 
cities  on  convention  trips  —  he  belongs  to  lodges  and  he 
gets  himself  made  delegate  —  you  ought  to  see  the  hotels 
we  stay  at  with  music  playing  for  all  the  meals.  I  get  a 
new  suit  and  a  whole  lot  of  stuff  to  play  with  and  so  much 
candy  that  I  have  to  stay  in  bed  and  just  holler  with  the 
stomach-ache  —  there !  "  He  paused  with  a  characteris- 
tic Birge  tilt  of  the  head. 

Thurley's  eyes  were  serious  as  she  answered,  "  I'm 
sorry  for  you.  When  you're  a  man  and  have  a  little  boy, 
I  hope  you'll  bring  him  up  better  than  you  have  been 
brought  up.  You'll  go  to  jail,  if  you  keep  on  acting  so 
wicked." 

"  Jail?  Why,  my  pa  knows  the  sheriff  an'  everybody. 
I  guess  he  knows  the  president." 

"  If  he  knows  so  many  people  and  is  so  smart,  why 
don't  he  live  some  place  besides  this  funny  town?  "  Thur- 
ley  demanded. 

This  stumped  Dan  for  a  moment,  then  he  answered, 
"  His  property  is  here  and  he  can  do  what  he's  a  mind 
to.  If  he  moved  to  a  city,  he'd  have  to  get  acquainted 
with  all  the  police  and  everything  —  see?  " 

22 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I  don't  like  that.  I  guess  you  better  not  introduce 
me  to  your  father;  I  wouldn't  approve  of  him.  I  won't 
live  in  a  little  town.  I  want  to  be  famous  and  have  every 
one  know  me,  when  I  drive  through  the  streets,  and 
have  people  throw  flowers  at  me,  when  I  sing.  I  want  to 
do  something  wonderful  —  and  good!"  she  ended  em- 
phatically. 

44  What  could  you  do?  "  sneered  Dan. 

Stung  by  the  inference,  she  took  hold  of  his  shoulders 
and  gave  him  a  sound  shaking.  "  I  told  you  —  sing  — • 
sing  —  sing,  you  silly  boy  that  can't  spell  and  eats  too 
much  candy.  I  can  sing,  and  nobody  can  take  that  away 
from  me  or  make  me  stop." 

She  released  him  unexpectedly,  and  he  fell  backwards 
over  the  step.  He  picked  himself  up  in  amazement,  col- 
lecting his  thoughts  and  saying  slowly,  "  If  you  were  a 
boy,  I'd  lick  you." 

"  Dare  you  —  go  on  —  pretend  I  am  a  boy."  She 
thrust  her  bare  foot  across  the  imaginary,  forbidden  line 
drawn  by  opponents. 

Dan  laughed.  "  Honest,  I  like  you  too  much.  You 
ain't  a  coward  like  Lorraine  McDowell;  she  cries  if  a 
little  bit  of  a  toad  hops  her  way.  She  likes  me  more'n  I 
like  her  and  I  hate  that." 

"  Was  that  Lorraine  with  the  pretty  dress?  "  Thur- 
ley's  red  lips  twitched  impatiently. 

"  Oh,  she's  got  lots  of  dresses  —  she's  always  having 
parties  and  speaking  in  school,  but  she's  a  cry-baby.  Just 
because  she's  the  minister's  daughter  she  thinks  she's  got 
to  be  in  everything.  .  .  .  Thurley,  what  words  was 
spelled  wrong  in  that  circus  poster?"  Dan's  dark  eyes 
looked  humbly  at  the  new  tyrant.  "  I'm  taller'n  you,"  he 
could  not  refrain  from  adding. 

"  People  —  p-e-o-p-l-e  —  and  two  ss's  in  missing." 

23 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I'll  change  'em,  if  you'll  come." 

"  If  I  can  find  the  pins." 

"  No,  you  come  and  sing,  and  I'll  write  on  here,  '  Hear 
the  wonderful  singer  from  way  out  west;  she  has  travelled 
miles  to  get  here.'  It'll  be  the  next  best  thing  to  the 
swinging  man." 

"  All  right."  Thurley  clapped  her  hands.  "  Who  is 
the  swinging  man?  " 

"  Why,  me,"  he  answered,  in  innocent  surprise  at  her 
question. 

"  Is  Lorraine  going  to  be  in  it?  " 

"  Not  much !  She's  got  to  get  pins  and  come  and 
watch  us." 

"  Then  I'll  sing,  because  I  don't  think  I  like  ministers' 
children." 

This  was  another  bond  between  them.  But  Dan's  way 
of  showing  it  was  to  ask,  "  Where  do  you  go  to  win- 
ters?" 

"  Mostly  the  winter  quarters  of  O'Brien's  circus.  Ma 
used  to  pose  in  living  pictures  with  one  of  the  O'Brien 
girls  and  that's  why  we  got  invited.  The  quarters  are 
out  in  Iowa,  and  it's  just  like  having  a  real  house  and 
home.  Sometimes  acrobats  that  got  hurt  during  the  sea- 
son rest  up,  or  clowns,  and  one  winter  we  had  the  india- 
rubber  man  and  his  wife,  the  bearded  woman;  and  he 
taught  me  a  lot  of  songs  and  she  showed  me  two  fancy 
steps  in  dancing.  Of  course,  the  nicest  part  is  having  the 
animals." 

"Animals?"  demanded  Dan  incredulously.  "You 
mean  —  circus  animals?  " 

"  Sure,  that's  what  the  quarters  are  for  —  tigers  and 
bears  and  monkeys  and  an  elephant  or  two  and  a  lion, 
and,  for  the  last  two  winters,  I  was  big  enough  to  help 
rub  in  the  tonic." 

24 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Dan's  eyes  were  aflame  with  curiosity.  "  Tonic?  "  he 
whispered.  "  What  are  you  trying  to  hand  me?  "  New 
worlds  were  rapidly  opening  for  the  young  czar. 

"  Skin  tonic  —  to  get  their  coats  in  shape  for  the  open- 
ing on  Decoration  Day.  Sometimes  they're  as  glossy  as 
silk  by  spring.  Pa  and  Ma  used  to  do  it  when  I  was  too 
little,  but  their  coughs  got  awful  bad,  so  I  took  the  job." 

"  You  mean  —  you  swear  to  goodness,"  Dan's  voice 
sunk  to  an  excited  whisper,  "  you  rubbed  tonic  on  —  on  a 
tiger?" 

Thurley  nodded  carelessly;  she  saw  no  cause  for  agi- 
tation. "  Yes,  they  need  a  lot  —  almost  as  much  as  the 
giraffe  —  his  neck's  so  long.  After  we  used  pails  of  it  on 
the  giraffe,  he  died  —  wasn't  that  tough  beans?  The 
men  holds  'em  and  we  keep  pouring  it  on  and  rubbing  it 
on  —  they  get  real  used  to  it  after  awhile  —  most  of  'em 
haven't  any  teeth  anyhow.  I  wouldn't  be  scared  of  any 
circus  animal,  if  I  had  a  pail  of  our  tonic  with  me  —  they 
all  know  it  for  an  old  friend.  It  comes  in  a  big,  red  pail 
labelled  'Ma  Thorpe's  Sheep  Dip  —  Cures  Man  and 
Beast  Alike.'  Why,  one  clown  was  the  baldest  thing  you 
ever  saw  and  he  nearly  beat  the  Sutherland  Sisters  at  their 
own  game  when  spring  came,  and  the  bearded  lady  never 
sat  down  for  a  moment  that  she  wasn't  dipping  her  hand 
in  a  little  saucer  of  it  and  rubbing  it  on  her  chin." 

'*  I  declare,"  sighed  Dan,  fairly  writhing  with  envy. 
"What  else  do  you  do?" 

"  Paint  the  props  over,  and  the  clown  practises  his 
shines,  and  Ma  and  the  bearded  lady  went  over  all  the 
property  tights  and  costumes  and  darned  and  washed  'em 
and  sewed  on  new  spangles.  It  was  like  a  real  family. 
You  know,"  she  edged  up  confidentially,  "  I  always  played 
that  it  was  a  family  —  with  the  india-rubber  man  and  his 
wife  for  the  father  and  mother,  and  the  clowns  and  acro- 

25 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

bats  for  uncles  and  aunts,  and  all  the  animals  —  except 
the  snakes  —  were  my  brothers  and  sisters.  I  played  the 
snakes  were  out-of-town  relations." 

"  And  what  were  your  own  father  and  mother?  "  Dan 
managed  to  inquire. 

11  Merely  neighbors,"  Thurley  said  with  chilly  polite- 
ness. 

Presently  Dan  sighed,  "  I  wisht  you'd  stay  in  this  town. 
Don't  your  father  or  mother  ever  work  or  anything?  " 

"  They're  sick.  I  guess  I  ought  to  have  been  their 
father  and  mother.  All  the  way  here  I  sung  for  food 
and  sold  tins.  Ma  didn't  tell  but  two  fortunes  all  the 
time.  She  got  a  summer  squash  for  one  and  some  lake 
trout  for  the  other." 

"  Then  you're  dead  poor,"  the  boy  was  thinking  out 
loud. 

"  Yes,  but  when  I'm  big  and  can  sing  in  a  hall  and  get 
a  dollar  a  night  —  then  we  won't  be  poor.  We  can 
travel  in  steam  cars  and  Pa  can  have  all  the  painkiller  he 
likes,  and  Ma  can  just  lay  on  a  sofa  and  read  novels  and 
cry." 

Dan  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  some 
money.  "  Thurley,  I  want  to  honest  buy  some  pans  — 
can  I  —  how  much  ?  " 

u  You're  giving  me  money  for  something  you  don't 
want!  " 

"By  George,  listen  to  her!"  he  informed  the  tired 
horses  nibbling  at  posts.  "  I  do,  too  —  I  want  to  put 
'em  away  for  Mrs.  Hawkins'  Christmas  present." 

"  She  said  she  didn't  need  any.     Didn't  you  hear?  " 

"  But  presents  ain't  what  you  need,  but  what  you  get." 

"  I  couldn't  —  you're  just  being  nice." 

"  Well,  I  tell  you  —  I'm  manager  of  the  show  and  I 
can  pay  you  to  sing,  can't  I?  " 

26 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Thurley's  eyes  brightened.  Dreams  do  come  true,  if 
one  is  patient. 

"  Yes,  I'd  take  money  for  singing,"  she  admitted. 

"How  much?" 

"  A  cent  a  song  to  begin  with  —  if  I  take  well,  you  can 
make  it  two." 

Dan  emptied  the  money  into  her  ragged  lap.  "  It's 
about  a  dollar  —  and  you  can  sing  a  hundred  songs." 

"  At  one  performance?  " 

"  No,  we're  going  to  South  Wales  and  Pike  and  give 
our  show." 

"  Thurley,  come  in  quick,  your  ma's  took  bad,"  called 
a  weak  voice  from  within.  "  I  guess  she'll  have  to  be 
rubbed." 

"  I'll  have  to  go  —  thanks,  Dan." 

"  Good-by,  Thurley;  I  hope  she's  not  awful  sick  — 
to-morrow  — " 

"  To-morrow,"  she  waved  one  hand,  the  other  holding 
the  tattered  dress  skirt  with  its  burden  of  coins. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mrs.  Hawkins,  coming  to  the  box 
wagon  to  find  out  why  the  travellers  had  not  appeared  for 
their  supper,  found  Thurley  and  her  father  kneeling  be- 
side the  lounge. 

"  She  must  have  died  just  as  I  come  in,"  Mrs.  Haw- 
kins told  the  neighbors.  "  Poor  little  lamb,  blessed  if 
she  didn't  start  right  in  to  comfort  that  miserable  dad  of 
hers !  Well,  I  guess  them  bosses  will  stay  unhitched  for 
some  time  to  come !  " 


27 


CHAPTER  III 

The  sale  of  the  nags  brought  enough  to  pay  for  the 
burial  of  Mrs.  Precore.  After  which  Betsey  Pilrig  sent 
word  to  have  some  one  wheel  the  wagon  up  to  the  empty 
pasture  land,  across  from  her  house,  where  it  could  stay 
as  long  as  was  necessary,  at  least  until  they  had  enough 
money  to  buy  more  horses  and  go  somewhere  else. 

So  the  dingy  white  wagon  was  anchored  across  from 
Betsey  Pilrig's,  to  Philena's  delight,  and,  while  Thurley's 
father  stayed  inside  to  sob  in  half-drunken  fashion  about 
"  his  loss,"  Thurley  made  rapid  inroads  on  Betsey's  and 
Philena's  hearts. 

For  that  matter,  she  had  made  inroads  upon  the  hearts 
of  Birge's  Corners  en  masse.  Even  Lorraine  loaned  her 
a  black  hat  for  the  funeral  and  stripped  her  garden  of  late 
blossoms  to  lay  in  the  wasted  fingers. 

Thurley  had  sung  at  her  mother's  funeral.  "  They 
always  have  music,"  she  told  them,  and,  besides,  "  it  made 
her  feel  better  inside."  So,  standing  at  the  newly  dug 
grave,  the  curious  mourners  watched  this  long-legged, 
blue-eyed  child-woman  in  every  one's  discarded  black 
clothes  sing  bravely: 

Jesus,  tender  Shepherd,  hear  me, 
Bless  thy  little  lambs  to-night, 
In  the  darkness  hear  me  calling, 
Lead  me  to  eternal  light  — 

"  It's  a  wonder  she  knows  any  hymn  tunes,"  Submit 
Curler  had  whispered  to  All  Baba. 

28 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Says  she  learned  'em  from  a  gypsy  evangelist,"  Ali 
Baba  answered,  happy  to  be  able  to  inform  Submit  Cur- 
ler, rather  than  be  informed. 

"  She  hasn't  a  shoe  for  the  winter,"  Betsey  Pilrig  was 
telling  Hopeful.  "  Don't  it  seem  sinful  to  think  of  Abby 
Clergy  with  her  thousands?  " 

Hopeful  nodded.  "  But  I  wouldn't  dare  to  mention 
it.  I've  got  some  things  of  my  own,  Betsey.  Come 
around  after  dark.  Ain't  it  a  disgrace  to  have  that 
man  come  drunk  to  his  wife's  funeral?  If  God  is  just, 
Betsey,  tell  me  why  He  gave  that  beautiful  young'un  with 
an  angel's  voice  those  parents?  " 

But  the  minister  began  to  pray,  so  Betsey  was  spared 
answering. 

After  the  funeral,  Thurley  and  her  father  had  retired 
within  the  box-car  wagon  to  "  grieve  proper,"  Ali  Baba 
summarized,  and  every  one  left  them  alone,  except  Dan 
Birge,  junior,  who  promptly  knocked  at  the  wreck  of  a 
door. 

Ali  Baba  tried  to  stop  him,  although  it  was  nearing 
four  o'clock,  sacred  hour  for  Miss  Clergy's  drive. 

"Hi,  you  —  ain't  you  no  reverence?"  he  demanded. 
"  There's  been  death  in  that  —  that  household." 

"  I  got  business  with  her,"  Dan  retorted,  knocking 
more  boldly. 

"  You  don't  own  this  town  any  more'n  I  do.  You 
come  down  off  that  step,  you  upstart." 

"  Chase  yourself —  I  got  to  speak  to  Thurley."  Dan 
made  a  tantalizing  face.  "  You  don't  dare  touch  me  — 
you  ghost  coachman  —  aha  —  aha  — "  Thurley  opened 
the  door  just  in  time  to  allow  Dan  to  make  good  his 
escape. 

Within,  he  stood  back,  abashed  and  silent. 

"  What  is  it,  Dan?  "  she  asked  mournfully.  "  If  it's 

29 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  money  you  gave  me  —  it's  gone.  I'm  sorry,  but  Pa 
needed  *  comfort '  for  the  burial." 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing  —  he  got  the  '  comfort '  at  my 
pa's  store,  so  it's  back  in  the  till.  I  wanted  to  say  I  was 
sorry  and  we  won't  have  the  circus  until  you're  feeling 
fit."' 

Thurley's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  Your  mother's 
dead,  too,  ain't  she?"  she  asked. 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  born,"  he  confided.  "  I 
guess  I'd  rather  have  it  that  way.  It  would  hurt  worse 
to  lose  your  mother,  after  you  really  knew  her.  Say, 
Thurley,  I  wanted  to  tell  you  I'd  like  to  have  you  join 
our  gang.  There's  about  eight  of  us  now  —  all  boys  — 
but  I  think  you'd  be  just  as  good.  Maybe  it  would  make 
you  forget;  maybe  your  father  will  go  to  work  and  you'll 
never  go  away  from  here;  maybe  my  father  will  give  him 
a  job,  if  he  can  tote  barrels.  I'll  ask  him  and  you  join 
our  gang  and  we'll  be  happy." 

"  I'll  have  to  work,"  Thurley  corrected.  "  Pa's  aw- 
ful sick;  Ma  thought  he  would  die  when  we  was  on  the 
road.  He  can't  tote  barrels  and  neither  can  I,  but  I'd 
like  to  join  the  gang,  Dan,  if  I  have  time.  And  when 
your  circus  plays  at  South  Wales,  I'll  come  and  sing." 
She  held  out  her  hand  in  gratitude. 

The  boy  took  it  awkwardly.  "  I  liked  you  right  off," 
he  admitted.  "  If  you  see  me  getting  too  fresh  or  mis- 
spelling words  or  things  like  that  —  tell  me.  I'll  take  it 
from  you.  Everybody  thinks  because  my  father  made 
money  selling  beer  that  I'm  going  to  be  hung.  Maybe 
I'll  go  to  school  like  you  said  —  I'm  not  going  to  be  any 
old  bum,  anyhow  —  and,  if  you  decide  to  join  the  gang, 
we  meet  at  Wood's  Hollow  by  Dog  Creek  every  after- 
noon it  ain't  raining,  but  don't  tell  Lorraine  McDowell, 

30 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

because  she  wanted  to  be  my  girl  this  winter  and  I  won't 
let  her." 

With  which  he  strutted  out  of  the  wagon  with  the  seri- 
ous feeling  of  a  muchly  married  man.  Somehow  Dan 
had  "  adopted  "  Thurley.  He  felt  personally  responsi- 
ble for  her  happiness  and  support,  and,  when  he  tried  con- 
vincing his  father  that  Thurley  ought  to  get  nine  dollars 
a  week  for  doing  nothing  and  his  father  jokingly  dis- 
missed the  matter,  Daniel  registered  a  vow  that  he  must 
see  to  it  that  she  had  everything  for  which  her  feminine 
soul  should  desire !  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  the  finer  part  of  the  lad  had  had  a  chance  to  show 
itself. 

Philena  Pilrig  told  her  grandmother  after  Thurley's 
first  visit,  "  She  makes  my  fingers  tingle  down  at  the  ends, 
and,  when  she  smiles,  I  want  to  hug  her,  and,  when  she 
sings,  I  want  to  cry  and  dance  all  at  once." 

Philena,  who  was  eleven  but  small  because  of  the 
twisted  spine,  sat  in  the  window  facing  the  old  wagon 
car,  so  she  could  catch  glimpses  of  Thurley  striding  about 
bare-legged,  her  ragged  dress  fluttering  gracefully  in  the 
breeze,  whistling  or  singing  or  calling  out  to  her  father 
who  lay  on  the  lounge  and  coughed  and  complained. 

Having  invited  the  Precores  to  camp  on  her  land,  Bet- 
sey Pilrig  also  felt  responsible  for  their  welfare.  She 
saw  to  it  that  Thurley  washed  dishes  and  ran  errands  in 
return  for  food,  and,  once,  when  she  ventured  over  to 
interview  her  father  as  to  his  intentions  of  ever  working, 
Thurley  stood  guard  on  the  steps  to  tell  her  "  Pa  was 
sleeping  —  he's  getting  that  gray  look  around  his  lips." 

"Thurley,  did  you  ever  go  to  Sunday  school?"  she 
asked  one  afternoon  when  Thurley  and  Philena  were  in- 
tent on  paper  dolls. 

31 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  No,  but  it's  where  you  learn  about  the  Lord  and  you 
have  a  Christmas  tree  —  the  evangelist  told  me." 

"  Philena  gets  there  except  in  bad  weather  —  maybe 
you  and  she  could  go  together,"  Betsey  suggested. 

"I've  the  loveliest  teacher!"  Philena  supplemented. 
"  Her  name  is  Kate  Sills,  and  she's  going  to  marry  the 
postmaster  —  she  has  a  beautiful  white  plume  on  her 
hat." 

"  I'd  like  to  go,  if  I  had  shoes.  I  guess  you  can't  get 
in  barefoot." 

"  Maybe  we  can  find  shoes,  if  that's  all  that's  wrong." 

"  I  can  be  a  home  missionary,  granny,"  Philena's  little 
old  face  lighted  with  smiles.  "  You  know  —  the  money 
in  my  bank." 

Thurley  flushed.  "  I  don't  want  any  one's  money  — 
least  of  all  Philena's.  What  is  a  home  missionary?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  be  a  foreign  missionary  when  I'm  big 
and  strong,"  Philena  answered.  "  It's  some  one  who 
sails  off  to  China  or  Africa  where  they  find  heathens 
ready  to  eat  them  up;  the  heathens  throw  their  babies 
into  the  river  and  don't  believe  in  God,  and  the  mission- 
aries teach  them  to  build  nice  houses  and  dress  their 
babies  in  white  and  sing  songs.  I  heard  a  real  true  one 
tell  about  it  last  winter  —  she  stayed  two  days  at  Lor- 
raine's house  —  and  that's  what  I'm  going  to  be,  isn't  it, 
granny?  " 

"  If  you're  well  enough." 

"  Why  couldn't  I  go  with  you  to  Africa  or  China  and 
sing  the  songs,  and  you  could  pray  and  teach  and  I'd  mind 
the  babies  while  you  stitched  up  the  white  dresses?" 
Thurley  rattled  on.  "  Let's  be  missionaries  together  — 
listen,  I'll  sing  some  songs." 

"  Granny,  fetch  all  the  dolls  —  they  can  be  heathen  — 
that's  the  ship  we're  going  on  —  and  there  is  Africa  all 

32 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

full  of  savages  —  get  my  Bible,  Thurley,  and  my  bag  — 
we'll  pretend  we're  there  now."  Philena's  crutch  tapped 
quickly  over  the  floor. 

Betsey  Pilrig,  supposed  to  be  busy  with  her  mending, 
paused  to  listen  to  Philena  pray  for  the  heathen,  her 
crutch  laid  aside,  kneeling  on  the  floor  of  "  awful  Africa," 
alias  the  south  room  alcove.  The  heathen,  six  subdued, 
disinterested  dolls  and  a  fast  unravelling  Teddy-bear, 
stood  in  a  row  listening  to  her  sweet,  thin  voice  conclude : 

"  Oh,  Lord,  you  have  sent  us  here  to  save  these  peo- 
ple, and,  if  they  don't  understand  what  I  mean  and  how 
wrong  it  is  to  sacrifice  their  young  and  eat  us  up  — 
Thurley,  isn't  it  awful  to  have  to  say  that  to  the  Lord?  — 
but  it's  so  —  may  their  hearts  be  inspired  by  the  sweet, 
sweet  voiced  singer  who  has  come  with  me  into  the  wilder- 
ness, forsaking  wealth  and  love  to  serve  the  cause. 
Amen.  Now,  ladies  of  Africa,"  finished  Philena,  open- 
ing her  eyes,  "  Miss  Precore  will  sing."  She  picked  up 
her  crutch  and  gave  way  to  Thurley. 

Whereat   Thurley,   balancing   Philena's   pink   parasol 

with  one  hand  and  a  pretended  hymnal  in  the  other,  sang 

'  Throw  Out  the  Life  Line  "  and  "  Onward,  Christian 

Soldiers,"  until  Betsey  Pilrig,  unable  to  remain  incognito 

any  longer,  came  to  the  doorway  to  say, 

'  Thurley,  Thurley,  how  did  you  ever  learn  to  sing?  " 

Annoyed  that  the  game  be  interrupted  Thurley  an- 
swered shortly,  "  God  taught  me,  I  guess,  but  He  made 
my  long  legs,  too.  And  now,  Mrs.  Pilrig,  unless  we  fin- 
ish, we  may  be  taken  prisoner  any  minute  and  roasted  to 
ashes  —  look  out,  Philena,  that  big  one  is  after  you," 
brandishing  her  parasol  to  ward  him  off. 

Properly  rebuked  Mrs.  Pilrig  stole  away  to  prepare  the 
missionaries'  supper,  while  Thurley  and  Philena  drew  up 
a  compact,  signing  and  dating  it  to  read  as  follows  : 

33 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Thurley  Precore  and  Philena  Pilrig  of  Birge's  Cor- 
ners do  swear  they  will  go  as  missionaries  to  convert  the 
heathen  from  eating  flesh  and  all  the  other  bad  things 
they  do.  Thurley  will  sing  the  songs  and  mind  the  babies 
so  the  mothers  can  attend  the  meetings  and  Philena  is 
to  preach  and  pray  and  make  white  dresses  for  every 
one.  If  Lorraine  McDowell  wants  to  she  can  travel 
in  America  and  raise  funds  for  the  cause  but  nobody 
shall  ever  be  the  same  dear  friends  as  Thurley  Precore 
and  Philena  Pilrig.  Amen. 

"  THURLEY  PRECORE  and  PHILENA  PILRIG." 

They  put  it  between  the  pages  of  the  illustrated  Bible 
and  then,  descending  to  things  of  the  earth  earthy,  fell 
upon  a  batch  of  newly-baked  cookies  with  the  ferocity 
of  the  unconverted  savages. 

In  the  midst  of  her  cookie  Philena  paused  to  remark, 
'  Thurley,  do  you  think  my  being  lame  will  make  any 
difference  —  you're  so  straight  and  strong  — " 

Thurley  finished  her  cookie,  while  she  thought  up  her 
defense.  Spying  tears  in  Philena's  eyes  she  went  over  to 
fling  her  arms  about  the  crooked  back  and  declare,  "  Phi- 
lena Pilrig,  you'll  be  armed  with  your  crutch  —  like  a 
soldier  with  a  gun.  You'll  really  be  better  to  go  as  a 
missionary  than  folks  that  haven't  crutches,"  clapping 
her  hands  in  delight  at  the  rainbow  smile. 

"  But  nobody  ever  thinks  much  of  cripples  —  Oyster 
Jim  fought  in  the  Civil  War,  and,  when  he  came  back 
lame,  nobody  married  him  and  he  started  in  having  a 
store  —  they  say  he  wanted  to  be  a  lawyer." 

"  Then  he  should  have  been  a  lawyer  just  the  same. 
Wait,  Philena,  I  guess  God  wants  to  say  something  — 
ssh !  "  Her  eygs  were  like  stars,  and  she  warded  off 
Philena's  outstretched  arm  as  if  afraid  mortal  touch 

34 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

might  dim  the  celestial  message.  "  Oh,  lots  of  times," 
she  added  a  moment  later,  "  God  does  tell  me  things  — 
queer  things.  Sometimes  they  rhyme  like  poems  in  books 
and  sometimes  they're  cross  — 'cause  some  one  has  to 
scold  little  girls  and  Pa  and  Ma  never  said  anything  to 
me  —  so  God  had  to  scold  me,  and  now  He's  telling 
me  something  to  comfort  you,  Philena.  What  do  you 
think  it  is?  " 

"  Oh,  you  scare  me  most  —  talking  like  a  book  — 
God  never  tells  folks  things,  except  what  He  wrote  down 
in  the  Bible  —  whisper  it,  Thurley  — " 

"  He  says,  '  Tell  Philena  that  cripples  can  be  conquer- 
ors,' "  sang  Thurley  in  a  clear  monotone,  "  cripples  can 
be  conquerors  —  there  —  I  guess  you'll  be  as  good  a  mis- 
sionary as  ever  lived." 

Philena  repeated  it  in  an  awed  tone.  "  That's  beauti- 
ful —  now  I  don't  care  about  my  crutch  .  .  .  but  how 
can  you  tell  for  sure  it's  God  talking?  " 

Thurley's  eyes  were  like  sapphires  in  the  sun.  "  Some- 
thing taps  at  my  heart  and  I  know  I'm  going  to  have  a 
wonderful  something  told  me  —  or  a  terrible  scolding  — 
and  then  whatever  it  is  God  wants  to  say  is  just  sung 
into  my  head  and  I  know  —  I  do  know,  Philena,  I  am 
right." 

"  I  wouldn't  tell  any  one,  if  I  was  you,"  Philena  sug- 
gested enviously. 

"  No,  there's  as  much  about  children  that  grownups 
don't  understand,  as  there  is  about  grownups  we  don't 
understand,"  Thurley  said  sagely.  "  But  you  can  al- 
ways remember  that  God  said  that  straight  to  me  — 
1  cripples  can  be  conquerors ' —  just  like  He  told  me  at 
Midland  City,  Illinois,  '  You  let  me  catch  you  cutting 
off  your  hair  and  trying  to  run  away  and  I'll  stop  your 
singing  mighty  quick!  '  See,  Philena?  " 

35 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Isn't  it  funny?  "  Thurley  told  her  father  that  night, 
"  I'm  to  belong  to  the  gang  and  play  robbers  and  Indians, 
and  I'm  to  be  a  missionary  with  Philena,  and  there  must 
be  different  halves  of  me,  and  Dan  has  seen  one  half 
and  thinks  it  is  a  whole,  and  so  has  Philena.  I  wonder 
what  I'd  do  if  the  gang  met  the  same  day  I'd  promised 
to  play  missionary?  " 

A  cough  answered  her.  "  Is  there  any  more  rum?  " 
he  fretted. 

Regretfully  Thurley  produced  the  bottle.  "  Don't 
drink  until  you  see  things,"  she  begged.  "  Makes  me 
shiver  when  you  talk  down  low  —  there  —  that's  enough 
for  now.  ...  I  guess  if  the  gang  met  on  missionary 
day,  I'd  make  'em  all  sit  down  in  front  of  me  and  I'd 
sing  to  'em  —  something  awful  different  from  gang  stuff 
or  missionary  hymns,  and  then  neither  could  be  cross." 

"  I  guess,"  her  father  hiccoughed,  "  you'll  —  hie  —  al- 
ways be  a  good  fellow." 


CHAPTER  IV 

It  was  not  until  Thurley  allied  herself  with  the  gang 
at  Wood's  Hollow  that  she  came  into  possession  of  the 
Corners'  great  mystery  —  Abigail  Clergy  who  lived  in 
solitary  grandeur  in  the  red  brick  mansion  overlooking 
the  lake. 

After  Thurley  had  proved  herself  as  great  a  success  as 
a  good  fellow  to  the  gang  as  she  had  at  convincing  Philena 
of  her  possibilities  as  a  missionary,  and  had  played  hi-spy 
half  the  afternoon,  she  wandered  by  chance  towards  the 
first  of  the  deserted  summer  houses  in  lieu  of  a  new  hid- 
ing place  and  became  fascinated  by  these  silent  buildings. 
She  began  exploring  one  after  the  other,  forgetful  of  the 
faint  "  Hul-1-o-o  —  Thur-lee  "  which  the  gang  sent  in 
her  direction. 

Boarded-up  windows  did  not  yield  to  her  strong  fin- 
gers nor  tottering  verandas  offer  a  cordial  invitation  to 
rest.  There  was  a  chill  in  the  October  air,  and  Thurley 
gladly  scampered  up  and  down  one  pair  of  steps  after  an- 
other, peering  into  one  dark  room  and  then  another, 
wandering  through  weed-choked  gardens  and  pausing  un- 
der apple  trees  to  make  up  stories  to  suit  each  house. 
In  her  imaginative  way  she  peopled  the  places  with 
golden-haired  ladies  and  blue-eyed  babies,  handsome  gen- 
tlemen driving  smart  horses,  and  then  every  one  sitting 
down  to  eat  tons  of  good  things  served  by  colored  wait- 
ers. In  her  motley  travels  through  the  country  Thurley 
had  obtained  glimpses  of  such  elegance,  if  not  actually 
experiencing  it. 

The  gang  was  forgotten,  so  was  Philena,  and  the  fact 

37 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

that  she  had  promised  to  play  missionary  at  five  o'clock. 
She  forgot,  as  well,  that  her  father  was  out  of  "  com- 
fort," and  would  complain  all  night  unless  he  was  sup- 
plied, and  that  she  had  been  worrying  all  morning  as  to 
what  they  should  do  when  snow  carpeted  the  meadow  and 
the  box-car  wagon  proved  inefficient  against  wind  and 
frost ! 

Thurley  was  living  in  an  enchanted  land  all  her  own  — 
these  houses  were  hers!  One  by  one  she  made  the  im- 
aginary tenants  leave  and  go  elsewhere,  while  she  be- 
came an  imprisoned  princess  doomed  to  spend  a  year  in 
each  house  before  she  could  be  free  of  the  ten-headed 
dragon !  She  ran  along  the  shore  in  delight  as  she  con- 
templated her  prisons.  Each  day  she  would  come  and 
camp  on  the  outside  of  the  house  in  which  she  was  im- 
prisoned, playing  princess  in  spangled  crimson  and  lace 
and  pretending  the  ten-headed  dragon  lived  in  a  cave  in 
the  bottom  of  the  lake  and  could  poke  one  of  his  heads 
up  at  unexpected  moments  to  see  if  his  prisoner  was  be- 
having as  he  desired! 

Then  she  spied  a  light  burning  in  the  last  of  the  houses. 
She  wondered  if  she  had  imagined  "  until  it  was  better 
than  real,"  a  favorite  experience.  But  as  she  came 
closer,  she  saw  several  lights  and  unmistakable  signs  of 
long-accustomed  habitation. 

"  This  was  the  loveliest  house  of  all,"  she  thought 
mournfully,  "  and  it  had  to  be  lived  in!  " 

Yet  this  house  betrayed  signs  of  decay;  the  shutters  on 
one  side  were  fastened  tightly  and  bricks  dislodged  from 
an  unused  chimney.  Thurley  could  not  refrain  from  tak- 
ing an  extra  peek.  She  made  her  way  to  the  side  and 
crept  up  the  steps  gently  to  push  at  the  carved  old  door 
with  its  tarnished  knocker. 

It  opened !  Taut  with  excitement  and  fearless,  Thur- 

38 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ley  felt  that  she  ought  to  repeat  a  charm  to  save  herself 
from  being  changed  into  a  mouse  or  a  rubber  plant  or 
some  such  helpless  creation. 

Inside  the  house  burned  a  jewelled  lamp;  bulky  objects 
were  shrouded  with  covers.  The  boards  creaked  under 
her  sturdy  feet  as  she  tiptoed  about.  A  musty  smell  per- 
vaded everything,  and  there  were  several  doors,  one  of 
which  she  was  about  to  open  when  a  voice  from  the  stair- 
way made  her  halt. 

"  All  Baba,  it  isn't  four  o'clock.  How  dare  you  come 
inside?"  said  the  voice.  Looking  up,  Thurley  saw  a 
bent-over  lady  in  an  old  black  dress,  her  yellowed  fin- 
gers shining  with  rings  as  they  clutched  the  banister. 
Her  thin,  pointed  face  with  its  restless  eyes  was  looking 
over  towards  the  opened  door;  she  had  not  spied  Thur- 
ley. 

"  Close  that  door,  you  stupid  AH  Baba ;  never  dare  to 
come  here  again  —  where  are  you?  Why" — this  with 
a  hysterical  scream — "  it's  a  child  —  a  child — "  and  the 
little  old  lady  began  running  down  the  stairs,  beating  her 
hands  in  the  air,  as  if  trying  to  strike  at  Thurley. 

Thurley  turned,  throwing  back  her  head  in  defiance  and 
calling  out,  "  Lock  your  doors,  if  you  don't  want  com- 
pany," making  a  hasty  retreat  at  the  same  time. 

Racing  down  the  path,  Thurley  came  into  collision  with 
Ali  Baba,  who  was  on  his  way  to  hitch  Melba  to  the 
coupe. 

"For  cat's  sake,  where  do  you  come  from?"  he  de- 
manded, holding  Thurley  by  her  arm. 

Thurley,  making  sure  the  door  of  the  house  had  closed 
and  the  little  old  lady  vanished,  whispered,  "  I  thought 
I'd  have  a  look,  so  I  went  inside  and  some  one  came  down 
the  stairs  and  said,  'Ali  Baba,  it  isn't  four  o'clock!' — 
and  when  she  saw  me,  she  was  cross." 

39 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Ali  Baba  dropped  her  arm.  "  Have  you  been  inside 
that  house?  " 

Thurley  nodded.  "  Just  in  the  hallway  —  she  found 
me  there." 

"  Land  sakes  and  Mrs.  Davis,"  Ali  Baba  said,  smiling 
in  spite  of  himself.  "  I  guess  you've  done  what  no  other 
kid  in  the  Corners  has  ever  dared  to  try.  But  don't  do  it 
again  —  children  should  not  be  seen  nor  heard,  according 
to  Miss  Abby,"  and  he  brushed  by  her  on  his  way  to  the 
barn. 

Thurley  was  not  satisfied  with  this  answer.  She  went 
back  to  the  Corners  to  find  Philena's  pale  face  pressed 
against  the  window  glass  watching  for  her  missionary 
partner's  tardy  appearance. 

"  Philena,  I  have  been  in  a  funny  brick  house  at  the 
lake,"  Thurley  said,  "  and  I  want  your  granny  to  tell  me 
why  it  is  so  queer  —  and  who  that  old  woman  is,  and  who 
is  Ali  Baba  and  why  can't  any  one  ever  go  there?  " 

Betsey  Pilrig,  who  was  passing  through  the  room, 
stopped  in  amazement.  "  Have  you  been  inside  the 
Clergy  house?  "  she  demanded. 

Thurley  told  her  experience. 

Betsey  sought  refuge  in  the  nearest  rocking-chair. 
"  Then,  listen,  Thurley,  for  as  long  as  you've  come  to 
stay  a  spell,  you  ought  to  know  —  and  I  guess  I  can  tell 
you  as  well  as  Hopeful  Whittier  or  Ali  Baba.  A  long 
time  ago,  most  thirty-five  years,  that  house  was  lived  in  by 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lemuel  Clergy,  of  New  York  City,  and 
they  were  worth  more  money  than  they  could  count,  but 
all  they  cared  for  was  Abigail,  their  daughter,  and  they 
were  going  to  leave  her  everything  they  owned  just  be- 
cause they  loved  her  so  much.  But  they  always  planned 
she  would  marry  some  one  and  be  as  happy  as  a  queen." 

Betsey  paused  for  a  properly  doleful  sigh.  "  As  I  was 

40 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

sayin',  my  cousin,  Hopeful  Whittier,  had  married,  and 
her  husband,  Jim  Whittier,  was  drowned  on  the  Great 
Lakes  three  months  after  their  weddin'  day.  Hopeful 
came  back  to  Birge's  Corners,  just  like  to  die  of  grief. 
Mrs.  Clergy  heard  of  it  and  came  to  see  her,  and  she  says, 
'  My  dear,  come  and  live  with  us  —  Abby  needs  a  maid 
of  her  own  these  days,  and  I  think  she'd  like  you.'  Of 
course  poor  Hopeful  didn't  know  about  bein'  a  lady's 
maid  and  fixin'  hair  and  lace  and  all  that  Miss  Abby 
wanted  done.  But  she  was  so  heartbroken  for  Jim  — 
they  never  found  his  body  —  that  she  was  glad  to  go,  and 
the  Clergys  were  so  good  to  her  and  Miss  Abby  so  kind 
and  willin'  to  show  her  how  she  wanted  everything  fixed 
that  Hopeful  was  as  happy  as  she  could  be  —  without 
forgettin'  Jim. 

"In  them  days  the  Clergy  house  —  The  Fincherie  is 
its  name  —  was  never  without  guests.  My  stars,  I've 
known  as  many  as  thirty  extra  people  packed  in  there 
for  a  week  at  a  time,  and  every  other  house  on  the 
shore  the  same  with  balls  and  basket  picnics,  charades 
and  corn  bakes  and  sailin'  trips  every  minute  in  the  day! 
But  out  of  every  one  there  —  and  there  was  the  grandest 
and  the  finest  in  the  land  —  there  was  no  one  half  so 
beautiful  nor  gay  nor  kindhearted  as  Abby  Clergy  —  no 
one  could  deny  but  what  it  was  so.  Her  father's  money 
and  her  fine  clothes  and  jewels  and  her  beauty  didn't  turn 
her  head  a  mite. 

"  Let  me  see  —  I  guess  she  was  around  seventeen  when 
Hopeful  first  went  there  —  girls  was  more  advanced  at 
seventeen  than  they  are  now.  That  fall,  when  it  came 
time  to  close  the  house  and  go  to  New  York,  Abby  Clergy 
tells  Hopeful  she  wants  her  to  come  and  live  in  their  New 
York  house  the  same  as  if  she  was  one  of  these  high- 
flyer maids  they  bring  from  Paris.  Of  course  Hopeful 

41 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

was  mighty  glad,  for  she  had  come  to  love  Miss  Abby 
and  she  knew  Jim  would  have  told  her  to  go,  if  he 
could  have  done  it.  But  before  they  closed  the  house, 
they  give  a  harvest  dance,  so  they  called  it  —  late  in  Sep- 
tember it  was  —  and  I  never  did  see  such  a  time.  The 
stables  were  packed  with  teams,  and  the  steam  cars  ran  a 
special  train  to  South  Wales  for  some  of  the  people,  and  a 
fellow  in  New  York  sent  the  food,  and  champagne  just 
flowed  like  the  lake  water.  They  had  fiddlers  from  New 
York,  and  a  florist  with  a  load  of  flowers  to  fix  up  every 
room,  and  nobody  else  on  the  lake  shore  thought  of  going 
home  until  the  Clergys'  harvest  dance  was  over. 

u  Hopeful  used  to  tell  me  everything  that  was  goin'  on 
and  she  often  says,  '  Betsey,  that  girl  is  too  beautiful  and 
good  to  live  —  I'm  afraid  she  is  goin'  to  be  taken.'  I 
laffed  at  her  and  said  she'd  marry  a  fine  gentleman,  and 
Hopeful  would  watch  their  children  playin'  on  the  beach, 
but  Hopeful  always  said  no,  she  had  a  feeling  things 
wouldn't  be  right.  Now  Abby  Clergy  was  beautiful  — 
just  five  feet  tall,  she  was,  and  slight  as  a  reed.  She  had 
big,  black,  satiny  eyes  and  an  ivory  skin.  It  was  natural 
for  her  never  to  have  color  and  her  hair  was  blue  black, 
combed  up  high  and  fastened  with  a  carved  comb,  and, 
when  she  laffed,  Ali  Baba  said  her  teeth  was  prettier  than 
her  strings  of  pearls  —  real  pearls  they  was,  too  —  but 
I  must  tell  you  something  about  Ali  Baba. 

"  Nobody  never  thought  of  calling  Joshua  Maples  any- 
thing but  Josh,  until  Miss  Abby  named  him  Ali  Baba 
after  he  started  bein'  her  father's  summer  coachman  and 
winter  caretaker.  One  day  he  says  to  her,  '  Miss  Abby, 
don't  you  ever  worry  about  anybody's  stealin'  this  house. 
Just  dismiss  it  from  your  mind  the  minute  you  leave  here 
in  the  fall  —  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  let  any  one  steal  you, 
neither.'  And  she  laffs  and  says,  '  Why,  who  wants  to 

42 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

steal  me?'  And  that  was  a  joke,  because  Abby  Clergy 
had  more  beaux  than  she  could  remember  their  names, 
but  she  just  smiled  at  them  all  and  never  cared  any  more 
for  any  particular  one  than  she  did  for  any  particular  rose 
that  was  bloomin'  outside  her  window.  '  A  lot  of 
thieves,'  says  Josh  —  he  was  pretty  smart  in  talking  — 
'  and  I  guess  you'll  have  to  ask  me  as  well  as  your  Pa 
before  I  give  my  consent.'  That  sort  of  tickled  her  and 
she  jumped  up  and  down  and  says,  '  You  be  AH  Baba,  and 
I'll  let  you  watch  over  the  forty  thieves,'  and  from  then 
on  he  was  All  Baba  to  her,  and  nobody  else  ever  called 
him  any  other  name. 

"  So  the  harvest  party  was  a  grand  success.  But 
there  come  down  from  New  York  a  stranger,  Count  Se- 
bastian Gomez,  who  was  introduced  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Clergy  as  an  Eyetalian  nobleman  with  a  lot  of  castles 
and  such  truck  over  in  Europe  and  more  money  than  he 
wanted.  He  was  a  fine-lookin'  fellow,  tall  and  straight 
as  an  arrow,  and  he  had  a  curled-up  mustache  and  big, 
bold  eyes  that  looked  you  clean  through.  He  was 
dressed  way  up  in  G,  and  could  talk  a  lot  of  these  here 
foreign  languages,  and  he  wanted  to  kiss  all  the  ladies' 
hands  and  everybody  thought  he  was  the  finest  sort  of 
fellow  they  could  ever  wish  to  see.  .  .  . 

"  But  Hopeful  Whittier  didn't  like  him,  and  she  says, 
when  she  saw  how  he  was  makin'  up  to  Miss  Abby,  flat- 
terin'  her  and  kissin'  her  hand  and  writin'  his  name  down 
for  all  the  dances  and  starin'  angry-like  at  any  other  fel- 
low who  tried  to  look  at  her  —  she  thought  then  that 
Miss  Abby  was  makin'  a  mistake.  But  if  this  count 
hadn't  eyes  for  any  one  but  Miss  Abby,  Miss  Abby  didn't 
have  eyes  for  any  one  but  the  count.  And  Hopeful 
told  me  that,  when  she  undressed  Miss  Abby  that  night, 
Miss  Abby  says  to  her,  '  Hopeful,  I  am  a  happy  girl  — 

43 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

I'm  so  happy  I  don't  know  how  to  understand  it  —  I've 
seen  some  one  I  could  love  better  than  my  own  dear  fa- 
ther and  mother.'  Hopeful  tried  to  warn  her,  she  didn't 
know  why,  but  Miss  Abby  wouldn't  listen,  and  she  sat  up 
half  the  night,  Hopeful  says,  thinkin'  about  him. 

"  The  next  day  the  guests  went  drivin',  and  the  count 
managed  to  set  beside  Miss  Abby  when  they  rode  and  at 
the  basket  picnic  and  never  to  let  her  out  of  his  sight. 
Abby's  Pa  and  Ma  seemed  pleased  about  it,  and  they  told 
their  friends  Count  Gomez  was  of  royal  blood  and  he  had 
letters  provin'  he  was  all  he  said  he  was.  Well,  that 
didn't  win  over  Hopeful  Whittier  nor  Ali  Baba,  but  they 
didn't  matter,  of  course.  So  Hopeful  went  back  to  New 
York  with  the  family,  and  Ali  Baba  closed  up  the  place. 
In  the  middle  of  the  winter  I  got  a  letter  from  Hopeful 
sayin'  that  the  count  and  Miss  Abby  were  engaged,  and 
all  New  York  was  talkin'  about  the  foreign  alliance,  and 
how  grand  it  was  to  marry  a  nobleman  and  be  a  real 
Eyetalian  countess.  She  said  Miss  Abby  was  so  happy 
she  just  floated  about  and  that  she  was  having  trunks  and 
trunks  of  dresses  made  because  <he  was  goin'  to  take  her  to 
his  palace  over  in  Italy  and  she  wanted  his  family  to 
think  Well  of  her.  I  didn't  like  the  sound  of  it,  neither, 
but  I  didn't  think  no  more  about  it  until  in  the  spring,  the 
last  of  Easter  week,  a  coach  and  two  bay  bosses  just  came 
tearin'  into  the  Corners  at  dusk  and  put  up  at  the  Button 
livery. 

"  Late  that  night  Hopeful  come  up  here  lookin'  as  if 
she  had  seen  a  ghost.  '  Good  heavens,  Betsey,'  she  says, 
'we've  brought  Abby  Clergy  home  a  ravin'  maniac!' 
Well,  I  didn't  know  what  to  answer,  but  she  went  on  to 
tell  me  that  just  before  the  weddin'  was  to  take  place  — 
on  Easter  Monday  night  —  and  all  New  York  was  in- 
vited to  come  and  see  an  American  girl  become  an  Eyetal- 

44 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ian  countess,  didn't  that  scoundrel  clear  out  and  they  find 
he  had  a  wife  and  five  children  hidin'  up  in  Michigan  and 
that  he  wasn't  nothin'  but  a  common  barber!  It  was  a 
grand  swindle  —  you  know  this  idea  of  our  girls  marryin' 
them  noblemen  was  kind  of  new  those  days  and  nobody 
was  smart  enough  to  ask  all  the  questions  that  they  would 
have  done  if  it  was  to  happen  now.  It  seems  he  had 
taken  a  lot  of  Miss  Abby's  jewelry  and  she  had  loaned 
him  money,  him  tellin'  her  his  '  allowance  '  was  bein' 
held  up  and  such  truck,  and  she,  poor  innocent  lamb,  be- 
lievin'  him! 

"  They  didn't  try  to  do  nothin'  to  him;  the  shame  was 
enough  to  bear  without  goin'  any  further.  Hopeful  said 
Mr.  Clergy  walked  the  floor  all  that  night,  and,  finally,  he 
told  his  lawyer,  '  Let  the  wretch  go,  thank  God  the  girl 
was  spared  the  farce  of  a  marriage.'  So  I  guess  the 
count  and  his  wife  and  five  children  took  the  Clergy  money 
and  opened  a  shavin'  parlor  somewheres  in  Michigan  and 
I  suppose  God  took  care  of  him  when  He  got  around  to  it. 

"  But  it  took  Abby  Clergy's  reason  for  the  time  bein', 
and  it  killed  her  Ma.  When  word  came  about  him  bein' 
false  and  all,  Abby  was  tryin'  on  her  weddin'  dress  and 
she  fainted  dead  away.  When  she  come  to  and  they  un- 
dressed her,  she  fought  'em  like  a  tiger  and  kept  screamin' 
out  that  it  was  not  so.  Finally,  they  got  her  calmed 
down  and  the  doctor  came  and  she  told  him  she  never 
wanted  to  see  any  one  again;  she  wanted  to  go  and  live 
for  a  whole  year  at  the  old  summer  home  at  Birge's  Lake, 
where  she  thought  she  could  forget  her  sorrow  and  bury 
her  shame.  But  she  didn't  want  to  see  nor  speak  to  any 
one  —  not  even  her  father  or  mother;  she  just  wanted 
Hopeful  to  stay  with  her. 

"  I  guess  if  she  had  asked  for  the  moon  they'd  have 
tried  to  have  got  it  for  her.  So  they  packed  up  her 

45 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

things,  and  she  and  Hopeful  came  all  the  way  to  the  Cor- 
ners by  team,  and  Ali  Baba  hurried  up  and  made  new  fires 
in  the  house  and  Miss  Abby  was  put  to  bed  as  helpless  as 
a  newborn  child. 

"  For  three  months  she  had  the  real  old-fashioned 
kind  of  brain  fever.  I  guess  they  don't  have  it  any  more. 
Some  say  it  has  left  her  queerer  than  others;  I  don't  know 
as  to  that;  I  only  know  that  Hopeful  never  stirred  from 
the  Fincherie  from  the  day  Miss  Abby  came  until  she  was 
out  of  danger,  and  then  they  had  to  tell  her  her  ma  had 
died  six  weeks  before.  Miss  Abby  had  a  relapse  and 
never  talked  except  when  she  was  out  of  her  head. 
She'd  moan,  '  Sebastian  —  Sebastian  —  I  love  you  — ' 
And  she'd  think  Hopeful  was  that  Eyetalian  fraud  and 
she'd  hold  out  her  little  hands  to  her  and  beg  him  not  to 
leave  her  and  to  prove  he  never  had  no  wife ! 

"  When  she  got  through  with  that,  it  was  fall  and  she 
had  never  set  eyes  on  no  one  but  Hopeful  and  the  doctor. 
She  sent  for  her  father,  and  in  Hopeful's  presence  she 
said  she  wanted  to  live  the  rest  of  her  life  at  the  Fin- 
cherie with  Hopeful  and  Ali  Baba  as  her  servants  and  she 
never  wanted  to  take  part  in  the  world  again,  that  she  was 
not  crazy,  she  knew  her  own  mind.  But  she  had  a  broken 
heart  and  she  could  not  bear  to  let  the  world  see  all  she 
had  suffered. 

"  It  'most  killed  her  pa  —  her  hair  had  turned  gray 
and  she  didn't  weigh  more'n  a  handful  —  but  she  kept 
beggin'  him,  and,  finally,  the  doctor  said  time  might 
change  her,  but  it  was  no  sense  to  argue  with  her  now  — 
so  her  father  said  she  could  stay  there,  and  stay  she  has! 
It  wasn't  long  after  that  when  her  poor  father  died,  but 
Miss  Abby  never  went  to  the  funeral  nor  shed  a  tear. 
Seems  as  if  all  the  love  and  tears  God  gave  her  were  spent 
on  that  rascal.  She  had  the  lawyer  sell  the  town  prop- 

46 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

erty  and  put  the  money  in  banks,  and  some  of  the  furni- 
ture they  sent  on  to  the  Fincherie,  but  she  never  let  Ali 
Baba  unpack  it.  And  there  she  lived  and  there  she  lives 
—  every  day  at  four  she  drives  in  that  old  coupe  with  Ali 
Baba  as  the  coachman.  Outside  of  that,  or  maybe  settin' 
on  the  back  balcony  when  it's  pretty  hot  weather,  Miss 
Abby  never  shows  herself.  Nobody  dares  to  go  there 
neither.  At  first,  the  old  friends  tried  to  make  her  be 
herself,  but  she  wouldn't  listen  or  even  see  'em.  She's  a 
sort  of  living  death,  like,  wearin'  the  same  old  clothes  and 
stayin'  in  her  two  front  rooms  year  in  and  year  out.  Of 
course  Hopeful  has  given  up  her  life,  you  might  say,  to 
Miss  Abby;  she  could  have  married  many's  the  time,  but 
somehow  she's  stayed  faithful  and  so  has  Ali  Baba.  I 
guess  it  was  meant  to  be  so.  Sometimes  Miss  Abby  tries 
to  thank  Hopeful  for  all  she's  done  and  she  gives  her 
presents  of  money  —  but  she  can't  never  seem  to  take  an 
interest  in  anything,  and  when  it  comes  the  anniversary 
of  her  weddin',  Hopeful  says  she  unlocks  her  trunks  and 
keeps  tryin'  on  all  her  weddin'  dresses  and  cryin'  soft  and 
pitiful.  The  family  lawyer  has  had  doctors  and  doctors 
and  mind-healers  and  faith-healers  and  all  such  people 
but  nothing  never  done  any  good.  She  just  lives  in  the 
house  like  a  little  old  shadow,  never  hurtin'  no  one  and 
doin'  nothin'  wrong  —  sort  of  hauntin'  herself,  that's  the 
best  way  to  say  it.  She's  only  fifty-five  —  but  she  seems 
seventy  —  sort  of  childish  and  sharp  spoke,  if  things 
don't  go  to  suit,  and  she's  talkin'  of  putting  up  a  big  wall 
around  the  house  so's  nobody  could  even  walk  across  the 
lawn.  .  .  .  Well,  well,  Thurley,  so  you  got  inside !  " 

Philena's  hands  were  clasped  in  excitement.     "  Isn't  it 
sad,  Granny?  "  she  said.     "  I  want  to  cry." 

Thurley  shook  her  head.     "  I  don't.     I'd  like  to  write 
a  story  about  it  and  set  it  to  music  and  rent  a  big  hall. 

47 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Then  I'd  have  people  pay  to  come  in  and  hear  me  sing  it 
to  them  and  I'd  rather  make  the  people  cry." 

Betsey  Pilrig  shook  her  head.  "  Thurley,"  she  said, 
lapsing  into  old-time  phraseology,  "  I  guess  there's  no 
danger  of  your  ever  comin'  in  with  your  leg  in  your  arm. 
I  guess  if  you  see  your  comeupment  ahead,  you'll  manage 
to  sing  your  way  out  of  it." 


48 


CHAPTER  V 

So  it  was  that  in  1912  the  second  thrilling  event  hap- 
pened. 

Young  Daniel  Birge,  proprietor  of  Birge's  General 
Dry  Goods  Store,  successor  to  Submit  Curler,  left  his 
office,  a  built-up  perch  back  of  the  shoe  counter,  to  meet 
Thurley  Precore  at  four  o'clock. 

The  four  clerks  knew  he  was  going  to  meet  Thurley, 
that  he  had  been  meeting  her  and  would  continue  to  do  so 
every  pleasant  afternoon,  and  they  might  as  well  ask  any 
questions  they  wished  before  this  hour,  because  business 
did  not  enter  their  handsome  young  proprietor's  head 
again  until  he  was  forced  to  re-enter  the  store  the  next 
morning. 

The  clerks,  three  of  whom  were  under  twenty  and  in 
love  with  Dan  and  one  of  whom  was  nearing  fifty  and 
longed  to  put  him  "  dead  to  rights,"  exchanged  knowing 
glances  as  they  watched  Dan  stalk  out  of  the  store  hum- 
ming a  popular  air  and  nodding  a  jaunty  good  night. 

Birge's  Corners  naturally  had  expected  something  of 
Dan  Birge  —  who  wouldn't  of  the  only  son  of  a  saloon 
keeper  and  man  of  money,  according  to  the  Corners'  esti- 
mate, who  had  been  brought  up  at  the  Hotel  Button  and 
permitted  to  do  as  he  liked?  Having  so  far  escaped  the 
gallows,  Dan  had  proceeded  to  shock  the  natives  as  much 
as  was  possible.  He  began  at  sixteen,  when,  "  like  a 
streak  of  grease  lightnin',''  according  to  Prince  Hawkins, 
he  started  in  to  educate  himself  by  mail  order  courses, 

49 


THE  GRAY.  ANGELS 

having  skipped  school  and  defied  teachers  years  without 
end.  With  the  Birge  determination,  once  started  in  any 
direction,  Dan  no  longer  haunted  the  barroom  or  the 
blacksmith's  shop;  he  went  to  Betsey  Pilrig's  house,  where 
her  adopted  daughter,  Thurley  Precore,  welcomed  and 
studied  with  him. 

Lorraine  McDowell,  the  minister's  daughter,  would 
have  been  only  too  glad  to  teach  Dan  Birge,  the 
gossips  had  it,  but  Dan  had  never  known  Lorraine  existed 
from  the  day  Thurley  had  first  "  sung  for  her  supper." 

Too  proud  to  admit  such  was  the  case,  Lorraine  had 
sensibly  set  to  work  to  be  as  useful  as  any  minister's 
daughter  ought  to  be  in  a  small  town,  and  if  she  had  her 
own  particular  form  of  heartache  when  she  saw  Dan  and 
Thurley  walking  or  riding  together  or  taking  supper  at 
the  Hotel  Button,  she  kept  it  well  concealed  and  smiled 
upon  them  and  every  one  else  alike. 

After  Dan  had  been  "  learning  "  for  two  years,  while 
his  father  bragged  that  his  son  would  outrival  college 
professors  —  and  all  by  mail,  too  —  the  older  Birge  died 
from  an  apoplectic  stroke,  leaving  Dan  his  heir  with  the 
flourishing  tavern,  blacksmith's  shop  and  real  estate  office 
to  take  in  hand. 

This  was  the  only  time  that  Dan  had  been  known  to 
consult  any  one  —  and  every  one  knew  Thurley  had  put 
him  up  to  doing  it,  to  say  nothing  of  his  being  under 
age  —  but  he  went  to  the  minister  and  they  had  a  long 
talk,  after  which  a  sign  "  Closed  "  was  across  the  saloon 
doorway,  and  carpenters  came  from  out  of  town  to  make 
the  place  over  into  such  a  store  as  the  Corners  had  never 
dreamed  of  possessing. 

"  My  father  was  an  honest  saloon  keeper,  I  guess," 
Dan  had  told  Thurley,  "  but  that  business  don't  suit 
me  —  nor  you,"  he  added  tenderly.  "  I'm  going  to  keep 

50 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

a  dry  goods  store  that  will  curdle  all  the  milk  in  the  South 
Wales  emporium.  I'm  eighteen,  Thurley,  and  when  I'm 
twenty-one  and  rid  of  trustees,  I'll  ask  you  to  marry  me, 
and,  when  I'm  twenty-two,  we'll  be  married." 

At  which  Thurley,  admiring  his  audacity,  had  waived 
the  question  and  began  to  suggest  what  lines  of  goods  had 
best  be  carried. 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  older  generation  could  not 
understand  a  modern  youth  who  would  pay  ten  hard- 
earned  dollars  for  a  bull  puppy,  and  then  name  her  Zaza 
and  pay  two  dollars  more  for  a  brass-studded  collar  and 
be  willing  to  settle  all  claims  for  partially  chewed  up 
rubbers  or  boots  for  which  the  said  Zaza  seemed  to  have 
a  penchant! 

Neither  did  they  see  the  necessity  of  Dan's  trips  to 
New  York  to  buy  goods.  Submit  Curler  had  never  done 
it,  and,  if  one  could  "  learn  by  mail,"  why  not  buy  as  well? 
Nor  did  they  see  the  reason  for  Dan's  red  and  white 
canoe,  the  "  Water  Demon,"  fitted  with  an  awning  and 
striped  cushions  and  a  thirty-five  dollar  talking  machine  in 
the  center  of  it,  and  why,  when  every  one  ought  to  be  at 
work,  Dan  and  Thurley  would  drift  along  the  lake  to  the 
tune  of  "  Dearie  "  or  "  Are  You  Coming  Out  To-night, 
Mary  Ann?  "  while  Zaza,  unasked  guest,  would  swim  out 
and  try  to  upset  the  cargo.  And  when  Dan  engaged  two 
rooms  and  had  a  private  bathroom  installed  at  the  Hotel 
Button  and  built  a  small  balcony  opening  out  of  his  sit- 
ting room,  the  younger  generation  fell  down  and  wor- 
shipped blindly,  while  the  older  generation  said  a  Birge 
never  "  built  a  cupola  no  place  without  wanting  to  get 
out  on  it  and  look  down  on  every  one,"  and,  "  there  was 
as  much  sense  in  all  his  notions  as  there  would  be  in  put- 
ting a  deaf  mute  at  a  telephone  switchboard." 

When  Dan  was  quoted  as  saying  he  did  not  "  feel  right 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

unless  his  suits  were  made  by  a  New  York  tailor,"  and, 
without  consulting  any  one,  bought  a  scarlet  roadster  and 
talked  of  building  two-family  houses  as  an  investment,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  twenty  thousand  dollar  house  with  an 
iron  deer  in  the  front  yard  and  steam  heat  that  he  would 
build  when  he  married  Thurley  Precore  —  the  older  gen- 
eration tilted  their  chairs  back  and  recalled  the  story  of 
the  negro  about  to  be  hung,  who  said  upon  approaching 
the  gallows,  "  Dis  am  gwine  to  be  a  powerful  lesson  to 
dis  nigger!  " 

Yet  the  town  had  to  admit  that  Dan  built  up  the  Cor- 
ners more  than  any  of  his  ancestors  or  contemporaries. 
He  ventured  money  in  a  moving  picture  show  and  made  it 
pay,  mollifying  the  churches  by  turning  over  the  pro- 
ceeds of  the  Passion  Play  for  a  new  carpet  for  a  Sunday- 
school  room  and  new  front  steps  for  the  rival  denomi- 
nation. He  installed  an  ice  cream  soda  fountain  in  Oys- 
ter Jim's  store,  lending  the  old  man  the  money,  and 
started  the  vogue  for  modern  sidewalks  and  a  town 
clock  —  and  even  a  manicure !  There  was  no  telling  to 
what  lengths  he  might  have  gone,  if  he  had  not  been  so 
in  love  with  Thurley  that  she  occupied  his  thoughts 
twenty-three  and  a  half  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four,  but 
he  managed  to  do  wonders  with  the  remaining  half  hour. 
The  town  often  said  he  no  doubt  would  have  borrowed 
their  farm  teams  to  make  polo  ponies,  and  it  was 
suspected  that  he  was  striving  frantically  to  "  get  up  a 
board  of  health." 

Certain  it  was  that  Dan  was  not  afraid  to  spend  his 
money — some  declared  it  was  a  hundred  thousand  and 
some  a  hundred  and  ten  thousand.  And,  most  glorious 
achievement  of  all,  he  liberally  pensioned  Submit  Curler, 
whose  eyes  were  too  dim  to  tell  basting  thread  from  sew- 
ing silk. 

52 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

When  Dan  would  try  to  convince  AH  Baba  of  some 
needed  modern  enterprise,  Ali  Baba  would  retort  angrily, 
"Who  made  you  so  wise  and  your  elders  fools?  Be 
careful  or  you'll  catch  brain  fever  and  be  as  bald  as  a 
badger!"  ' 

To  which  Dan  would  answer  good-naturedly,  "  No 
doubt  of  it  —  didn't  you  know  that  grass  never  grows  on 
a  busy  street?  " 

Which  would  leave  Ali  Baba  chuckling,  "  Land  sakes 
and  Mrs.  Davis,  if  that  boy  hasn't  a  little  Irish  in  him  — 
dead  dog  eat  a  hatchet !  " 

No  one  could  say  Dan  underpaid  or  cheated  any  person 
with  whom  he  had  dealings.  His  store  had  an  up-to- 
date,  live  air  and  one  could  find  bargains  and  articles 
which  had  never  been  seen  in  former  days.  Also,  when 
travelling  men  came  to  sell  him  and  he  entertained  them 
at  his  attempted  bachelor  apartments,  they  would  suggest 
a  game  of  penny-ante  and  something  to  drink,  and  the  boy 
would  inform  them  with  no  shrinking  indecision,  "  I  was 
raised  watching  men  make  fools  of  themselves,"  and  bid 
them  good  night. 

When  he  married  Thurley  Precore,  the  town  gossiped, 
Dan  would  meet  his  match,  and,  in  concluding  their  jere- 
miad, said  they  doubted  whether  Thurley  would  marry 
him  after  all,  but  if,  for  spite,  he  married  Lorraine,  who, 
goodness  knows,  would  jump  sky  high  if  she  ever  had  the 
chance,  Dan  Birge  would  be  the  same  bully  his  father  had 
been  to  his  wife  —  there  never  was  a  Birge  who  didn't 
have  to  boss  the  job  or  quit! 

None  of  this  bothered  Dan,  not  even  the  vituperation 
of  himself  when  he  encouraged  a  family  of  Sicilian  boot- 
makers to  rent  one  of  his  cottages  and  began  to  pay  to 
have  his  shoes  shined.  Nothing  bothered  Dan  except  the 
fear  lest  Thurley  should  not  marry  him;  that  only  both- 

53 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ered  him  at  stray  moments  when  a  wilful  impulse  led  her 
to  break  an  engagement  with  him  and  run  off  to  sing  at 
some  entertainment  at  South  Wales. 

As  he  strode  along  the  main  street,  Zaza  heeling  him, 
he  whistled  "  Bonnie  Sweet  Bessie  "  and  shouted  out  a 
hullo  to  every  one  he  passed,  regardless  of  age  or  rank. 
There  was  something  delightfully  irrepressible  about 
Dan.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  every  girl  in  town  was  or 
had  been  or  was  planning  to  be  in  love  with  him  might 
have  aided  his  buoyancy,  as  well  as  the  knowledge  that 
the  older  generation  still  looked  at  him  with  horrified  dis- 
approval and  yet  were  powerless  to  control  so  much  as  a 
single  one  of  Zaza's  barks. 

He  made  his  way  up  the  winding  path  leading  to  the 
burial  ground,  one  of  those  picturesque  spots  with  weep- 
ing willows,  wild  roses  and  a  tottering  old  fence,  and 
scraggly  berry  bushes  growing  insolently  without. 

"  Oh,  Thurley,"  he  began,  calling  before  he  reached 
the  summit. 

"  Ship  ahoy!  "  sang  back  a  strong,  sweet  voice.  Pres- 
ently he  came  upon  a  tall,  blue-eyed  girl  with  thick  braids 
of  dark  hair.  She  was  sitting  under  a  willow  tree,  a 
book  thrown  carelessly  at  one  side. 

"  Thurley,  dearest,"  he  began,  sitting  down  and  kissing 
her,  "  I  thought  four  o'clock  would  never  come." 

"  Did  you  make  mistakes  in  change?  "  She  put  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  "  If  the  clerks  could  see  their  lord 
and  master  now,"  and  she  rumpled  up  his  hair. 

**  Bother  the  clerks  and  the  whole  darned  town  —  I've 
made  you  promise  to  marry  me,  Thurley,  and  you're  not 
going  to  make  me  keep  it  a  secret.  Why  don't  we  tell 
every  one  right  away?  What's  the  use  of  keeping  it  to 
ourselves,  when  we  are  both  sure  of  ourselves  and  the 
happiest  things  alive?  " 

54 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Thurley  laughed  indulgently.  "  It's  just  me,  Dan.  I 
want  to  be  terribly  sure  of  myself." 

He  took  her  hands  in  his.  "  You  are !  You  love 
me.  You've  always  cared  for  me,  as  I  have  for  you  — 
'way  back  ten  years  ago  when  you  joined  the  gang!  I 
have  all  the  money  we  need  and  you  may  have  it  all.  Say 
we  won't  keep  it  a  secret!  I'm  dead  tired  of  the  Hotel 
Button;  it  gets  on  my  nerves  these  days.  Mrs.  Hawkins 
has  been  mighty  white  to  me  —  when  I  know  what  a 
spoiled  nuisance  I  must  have  been  —  but  she's  a  perfect 
litany  of  woe.  I  can  hear  her  now,  '  Wai,  there  wuz  two 
funerals  down  to  South  Wales  to-day  —  an'  I  meant  to 
make  a  lemon  pie  but  there  wuz  no  lemons !  '  Or  else  she 
gets  on  another  tactic  — of  borrowers  —  and  she  greets 
a  chap  with,  '  Don't  never  talk  about  borrowers,  Dan 
Birge;  my  curtain  frames  has  been  as  far  as  the  next 
township,  and  sometimes  I  ain't  set  eyes  on  my  ice  cream 
freezer  from  May  to  November !  '  And  if  I'm  trying 
extra  hard  to  think  about  business  —  and  I'm  really  think- 
ing about  you  —  she  starts  in  about  somebody's  second 
cousin's  divorce  and  soliloquizes,  '  We're  all  members  of 
one  human  family  and  God  never  meant  for  man  and  wife 
to  live  together  like  cat  and  dog.'  And  I've  never  known 
it  to  fail  that  I  was  hurrying  to  get  away  to  meet  some 
one  —  and  it  was  'most  always  you  —  that  she  didn't  drag 
me  into  her  sitting  room  to  see  some  of  her  damned  — 
excuse  me,  Thurley  —  embroidery  that  she's  going  stone 
blind  by  doing  and  listen  to  her  explain,  '  These  two 
doilies  is  just  alike,  only  one  is  blue  with  flowers  and  the 
other  is  pink  with  stars  and  anchors  —  they're  a  weddin' 
present  for  Mrs.  P.  L.  Flanigan  —  her  second  wedding, 
too;  she's  been  on  the  stage  since  she  could  lisp,  supported 
Madame  Modjeska  all  through  the  West  and  then  mar- 
ried a  no  good  Irish  comedian.  .  .  .  Oh,  Dan,  don't  be 

55 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

in  a  hurry!  Look  at  this  one  —  ain't  it  a  work  of  art, 
if  I  do  say  so  —  clover  is  like  sweet  peas,  awful  hard  to 
embroider  natural.'  ' 

Dan  paused,  out  of  breath. 

"  Yes,"  Thurley  said  soberly,  "  but  she  has  her  meals 
on  time,  and  you  eat  them." 

"  My  Swedish  appetite  is  always  with  me,  no  joke;  but 
what  of  that?  Do  you  think  I  expect  you  to  drudge  like 
Prince  Hawkins'  wife?  Not  much.  We  are  going  to 
have  a  maid,  no  hired  girl,  but  a  trained  maid,  and  we'll 
pay  her  five  and  maybe  six  dollars  a  week,  and  a  wash- 
woman besides  that." 

"  The  town  will  say  I'm  lazy.  Lorraine  McDowell 
does  all  the  work  at  the  parsonage  and  visits  the  poor 
families  besides." 

"  That's  very  fine  in  Lorraine,  but  she  isn't  my  Thur- 
ley. You  just  couldn't  pin  yourself  down  to  routine, 
could  you?"  He  looked  at  her  admiringly.  "  The  best 
you  can  do  is  to  pin  the  other  chap  down  to  it  —  like  you 
did  me.  It  is  you  who  made  me  study  and  make  good; 
I  was  a  spoiled  kid  with  more  money  than  was  good  for 
me  and  no  one  with  a  grain  of  faith  as  to  my  future. 
They  were  holding  their  breath  until  I'd  get  into  a  scrape 
and  they  could  go  at  me  without  gloves.  Well,  I  didn't, 
unless  they  call  loving  Thurley  Precore  and  being  en- 
gaged to  her  a  scrape !  Of  course  they've  patted  me  on 
the  shoulder  now  and  said  decent  things,  but  I'm  twenty- 
two  and  a  man,  and  they  can't  do  otherwise.  I  guess  you 
said  about  all  there  was  to  say  when  you  told  me,  '  The 
best  vault  in  which  to  keep  your  fortune  is  a  good  educa- 
tion.' ' 

Thurley  leaned   over   to   kiss   him   on   the    forehead. 
'You're  a  wonder,"  she  whispered,  "but,  really,  wouldn't 
Lorraine  make  you  happier?  " 

56 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

His  face  clouded  with  an  injured  expression.  "  Why 
drag  in  Lorraine?  She'd  like  to  drag  herself  in,"  he 
admitted  candidly,  "  and  I  guess  every  one  knows  it,  but 
you  don't  fall  in  love  to  suit  the  other  fellow  —  and  I 
don't  love  Lorraine." 

"  She's  so  pretty  and  frail,  and  you're  such  a  big,  strong 
gypsy  lad,"  mused  Thurley,  pulling  sprays  of  feathery 
grass  idly,  "  and  I'm  such  a  big,  strong  gypsy  lass  that 
we're  not  contrasts.  We're  too  much  alike,  Dan;  too 
selfish  in  the  same  way.  Every  one  is  bound  to  be  selfish 
in  some  way  or  other,  but  when  you  both  hit  the  same 
trail,  it  usually  ends  in  a  crash  .  .  .  please,  wait  until  I 
finish.  Then  we're  too  fond  of  having  our  own  ways. 
I'd  like  it  if  you  became  Daniel  Precore  instead  of  my 
becoming  Thurley  Birge;  yes,  I  truly  would.  I  don't 
want  to  promise  to  love,  honor  and  obey  any  one  —  not  a 
bit  of  it.  I  want  to  do  what  I  dreamed  of  as  a  child  — 
those  dreams  kept  me  alive,  Dan.  I  want  to  sing,  not  in 
the  town,  but  in  New  York,  London,  Paris.  I've  read 
of  girls  from  the  country  who  made  good,  and  I  can  sing, 
Dan !  It  is  not  silly  for  me  to  say  it.  Besides,  there  is 
little  else  I  can  do !  " 

"  I  know  it,"  he  said  in  a  muffled  tone,  "  but  why  not 
sing  just  for  me?  I'll  always  listen." 

"  That's  the  trouble.  I  want  to  sing  for  thousands  of 
strangers;  I  want  to  be  famous,  Dan,  and  yet,  I  want  you 
for  my  pal.  Don't  you  see  that  it  doesn't  go  together  as 
it  should?  For  me  to  stay  here  as  your  wife,  and  for 
me  to  travel  all  over  the  world  and  be  on  the  stage  —  and 
all  that  would  go  with  it.  I  wouldn't  be  your  wife  unless 
I  was  sure  to  be  the  right  wife.  Dear  old  boy,  you  shrug 
your  shoulders  every  time  I  try  to  explain  it.  But  I'm 
different  from  Lorraine  and  the  other  girls.  I'm  selfish 
and  generous  all  in  one,  quick  tempered  and  patient  by 

57 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

turns.  I  hate  to  fuss  about  details.  Domesticity  drives 
me  mad,  poor  Granny  Pilrig  can  tell  you  !  I'd  sit  up  half 
the  night  to  learn  a  song  or  read  a  book,  and  then  I'd 
want  to  be  hideously  lazy  the  next  morning.  Sometimes 
I  feel  as  if  I  were  floating  in  the  air,  flying  with  absolutely 
divine  ease  and  bliss  just  because  of  something  deep  inside 
myself  —  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  what  it  is.  I  can 
sing  on  hilltops  and  laugh  in  the  grayest  of  drizzles. 
Everything  can  be  in  glorious  purples  and  golden  colors. 
And  when  the  sun  is  actually  bright  and  every  one  is  con- 
gratulating every  one  on  the  weather,  I  find  myself  old, 
tired,  black  within.  I  want  to  cry,  scream,  go  away  from 
every  one  and  neither  speak  nor  move.  That's  what  they 
call  temperament,  I  understand,  and  you,  Dan  boy," 
Thurley's  lovable  mouth  curved  into  smiles,  "  you  could 
never  say  that  is  a  good  basis  for  a  happy  marriage  — 
particularly  to  a  gentleman  with  a  '  Swedish  appetite  '  and 
one  who  likes  to  be  amused  when  he  comes  home  tired  out 
from  a  bargain  sale  of  kitchen  oilcloth!  " 

"  Well,  what  is  the  basis  for  a  happy  marriage?  Mrs. 
Hawkins  says  '  young  folks  should  set  down  and  talk 
about  what  they  each  like  to  eat  before  the  engagement  is 
announced!  '  I  guess  we  can  pass  that  up." 

"  Did  you  know  what  Mrs.  Hawkins  said  about  me,  as 
being  a  good  wife  for  you?  It's  funny!  She  told 
Granny  and  Granny  told  me.  She  said,  '  I  bet  Thurley 
would  dust  the  divil  out  of  her  cut  glass  and  rustle  into 
her  georgette  crepes  to  get  to  a  singing  bee;  but  cook  that 
boy  a  square  meal,  darn  a  sock,  stand  a  bit  of  the  Birge 
temper  —  never !  ' 

"  She's  just  a  meddlesome  old  woman,"  Dan  began 
angrily. 

"  She's  truthful  and  she  likes  us  both.  Don't  let's  rush 
ahead  and  be  married  until  we  are  sure,  and  until  you  try 

58 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

once  more  to  see  if  you  don't  love  Lorraine;  it  seems  so 
cruel  when  she  cares  so  hard." 

"  If  she  writes  me  any  more  silly  notes  about  maple 
sugar  socials  on  her  everlasting  pink  paper  and  smelling 
of  shampoo  powders,  I'll  stop  speaking  to  her,"  he  de- 
clared. "  Let's  settle  it  to-day,  Thurley  —  announce  our 
engagement  in  the  Saturday  Gazette.  Everything  I  have 
or  ever  will  have  is  yours.  I  love  you;  I'll  do  what  you 
say  and  be  as  you  would  have  me.  Darling,  you've  no 
one  in  this  world  to  look  out  for  you  and  I've  no  one  to 
look  out  for.  Let  me  take  care  of  you !  Please,  I  care 
so  hard."  His  dark,  handsome  face  was  very  close  to 
hers  and,  suddenly,  he  laid  his  head  on  her  shoulder, 
smothering  a  sob. 

Thurley's  sunrise,  rose-red  self  went  out  to  him  in 
sympathy.  "  Does  it  mean  so  much?  " 

"  Just  —  everything,"  was  the  incoherent  answer. 

"Then  —  I  will."  Tears  came  into  her  blue  eyes. 
"  I  couldn't  make  you  wait  any  longer.  Look  at  me." 
She  lifted  his  face  between  her  hands  and  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  long,  wonderful  instant. 
"  Dan,  it  may  be  a  mistake,  but  I  think  I  do  love  you 
even  if  I'm  not  willing  to  be  a  house-and-garden  wife  and 
stop  my  singing.  .  .  .  I'd  perish  if  I  stopped  singing,  so 
promise  me  you'll  never  ask  it." 

"  Not  in  church  and  parlors  and  like  that,"  he  said 
unwillingly,  "  but  my  wife  isn't  going  to  sing  on  the 
stage." 

Thurley's  brows  drew  together  in  perplexity.  "  Well, 
maybe  no  one  will  ever  ask  me,"  she  evaded.  "  We 
won't  quarrel  about  it  until  they  do  —  only  I'd  fight  you 
pretty  hard  if  you  tried  to  stop  my  singing  —  it  means 
even  more  than  you  do !  " 

"  It  won't  after  we  are  married,"  he  asserted  jealously, 

59 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  and  I  won't  wait  long  for  you  either.  We'll  live  at  the 
hotel  until  the  house  is  ready.  I  want  to  begin  the  plans 
to-morrow." 

"Oh,  Dan,  a  year  anyway!  Whatever  will  Granny 
do?" 

"  Move  her  into  the  hotel,"  he  promised  generously. 
"  But  you've  got  to  marry  me  in  September !  Let's  go 
over  to  Philena's  grave  and  pledge  it." 

"  I  don't  think  I  deserve  you,  you're  so  much  in  ear- 
nest, but  I  am  sort  of  playing  a  lovely,  interesting  part  — 
a  wonderful  part,  too,  but  I'd  really  like  to  have  strangers 
here  to  see  how  well  I  do  it,"  Thurley  tried  to  explain  as 
they  came  up  to  a  white  cross  newer  than  the  surrounding 
markers  on  which  was  engraved : 

Philena,  beloved  grandchild  of  Betsey  Pilrig, 

Young,  beautiful  and  good,  God  numbered  her  among  His  angels 

At  the  early  age  of  fifteen! 

"  Now  promise,"  Dan  insisted,  holding  her  hands. 

"  I  promise,"  Thurley  answered.  Leaning  over  the 
cross,  they  kissed  each  other  with  tender  solemnity. 

"  Shall  we  sit  here  and  talk,"  Thurley  asked,  "  or  walk 
back?" 

"  Anything  you  like.  You're  so  beautiful  to-day, 
Thurley,  I  wonder  if  you  realize  how  beautiful  you  are! 
I'm  going  to  make  you  wear  the  proper  sort  of  clothes  and 
send  right  off  for  your  ring." 

Thurley  glanced  at  her  pink  cotton  blouse  and  white 
wash  skirt  in  disdain.  "  I  hate  bothering  over  clothes 
and  yet  I'd  like  rich,  weird  creations  just  dropped  from 
the  skies.  I  never  could  sit  and  sew  like  — " 

"  Lorraine,  I  suppose !  "  Dan  laughed  in  spite  of  him- 
self. "  I  want  to  walk  over  to  the  Gazette  office  and  put 

60 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

our  engagement  notice  in.  I  wouldn't  want  that  to  go  by 
another  week,  if  I  had  to  get  out  an  extry.  I  believe  I'd 
make  them  get  out  an  extry,  too !  " 

"  Did  the  Gazette  ever  get  out  an  extry  for  any- 
thing? "  she  asked. 

"  The  nearest  they  ever  came  to  it  was  when  Ali  Baba 
was  learning  to  ride  a  wheel  and  he  ran  into  a  barrel  of 
tar  pitch  within  half  an  hour  of  four  o'clock!  Come  on, 
sweetheart,  we  can  begin  planning  furniture." 

Thurley  lingered  near  an  old  tombstone  with  the  en- 
graving : 

Naked  as  from  the  earth  we  came, 

And  crept  to  life  at  first, 

We  to  the  earth  return  again, 

And  mingle  with  our  dust. 

u  I  love  a  graveyard,"  she  said  pensively.  "  I  like  to 
sing  in  one." 

"  Sing  for  me  now."  Dan  was  anxious  to  comply  with 
her  slightest  wish. 

"  This  is  a  queer  one  to  sing,  up  here,"  she  answered, 
beginning, 

The  ship  goes  sailing  down  the  bay, 
Good-by,  my  lover  good-by  — 

Dan  was  not  thinking  of  the  song;  he  was  thinking  of 
Thurley  as  his  bespoken  wife  and  of  his  and  Thurley's 
life  together.  Singing  was  to  be  a  minor  thing  which 
should  take  place  while  babies  were  rocked  to  sleep  or 
perhaps  on  Easter  Sunday  for  the  special  anthem.  Dan 
had  no  idea  of  allowing  her  to  remain  a  paid  soloist  — 
but  it  would  do  to  tell  her  so  later! 

"  Bravo,"  he  said  as  she  finished.  "  Shall  we  go 
along?  "  tucking  her  arm  under  his  with  a  masterful  air. 

61 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

They  trudged  down  the  pathway  to  the  road.  Some 
children  were  picking  the  last  berries  from  the  dusty 
bushes;  when  they  caught  sight  of  Thurley,  they  ran 
towards  her,  saying, 

"  Miss  Clergy  heard  you  sing.  Her  carriage  just  went 
on.  She  had  Ali  Baba  stop  so's  she  could  hear.  She 
stuck  her  head  out  the  window  and  asked  him  your  name 
and  Dan's  name  and  he  told  her,  and  then  she  stuck  her 
head  in  and  he  drove  on." 

"  There's  an  old  woman  who  ought  to  be  ashamed  to 
act  like  she  has  for  years  and  years,"  Dan  began. 

But  Thurley  did  not  answer.  Presently  she  said,  "  So 
—  I  had  an  audience  even  in  a  graveyard.  Dan,  do  you 
know  Miss  Clergy  never  asks  questions  about  any  one? 
She  must  have  liked  my  voice !  " 

"She'll  never  get  the  chance  to  hear  it  again!  I'll 
race  you  to  that  first  oak — " 

Thurley  shook  her  head.  "  Wait,  Dan,  I  feel  queer 
inside  ...  as  if  something  might. come  of  it,  I  don't 
know  just  what." 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  a  crazy  old  woman's  listening  to 
you  sing  stop  our  getting  to  the  newspaper  office  in  time 
to  announce  our  engagement?  " 

"  Dan,  do  you  realize  that  we  are  both  '  Corners  '  peo- 
ple and  they  never  do  get  along?  A  house  or  a  store  on 
the  corner  always  attracts  the  most  attention  and  gets  the 
most  notice  paid  to  it  and  that  is  why  your  father's  people 
founded  these  Corners  and  you  have  to  be  a  Corners  per- 
son —  people  just  naturally  pay  you  attention  or  you 
know  why  .  .  .  and  I'm  a  Corners  person,  too." 

"  I  said  I  was  not  going  to  listen  to  your  nonsense. 
I'll  kiss  you  right  in  sight  of  this  farmer's  team,"  he 
warned.  "  You're  going  to  belong  to  me  and  that  is  all 
that  matters." 

62 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  Gosh,  you  should  see  the  tilt  of  his  gold-banded 
cigar,"  was  AH  Baba's  comment  to  Hopeful  the  day  the 
engagement  was  announced  with  a  special  heading,  and 
also  the  fact  that  "  Mr.  Birge  has  begun  plans  for  build- 
ing his  permanent  residence  on  the  beautiful  site  over- 
looking the  lake.  It  is  understood  it  will  be  named  Fair- 
view  in  accordance  with  Miss  Precore's  wishes  and  elabo- 
rate furnishings  have  been  ordered  from  New  York." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  Lorraine,"  Hopeful  answered,  "  but  I 
bet  a  cookie  'Raine  goes  to  see  Thurley  and  takes  her  an 
embroidered  set  for  a  present.  She's  as  brave  as  a  lion 
and  sweet  as  an  angel !  And  I  bet  you  a  mince  pie  Thur- 
ley Precore  isn't  going  to  be  happy." 

"  You  ain't  sayin'  anything  against  Thurley? "  de- 
manded Ali  Baba. 

"  Land,  no,  I  set  a  sight  by  Thurley  the  same  as  by 
Lorraine,  and  I  like  Dan  as  well  as  either  of  'em.  It's 
just  a  mistake,  Ali  Baba,  and  you  know  what  mistakes  in 
love  do."  Her  hand  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the 
upper  front  rooms.  "  Well,  wait  and  see.  Thurley  was 
meant  always  to  sing  for  her  supper,  the  same  as  Lor- 
raine was  made  to  cook  supper  for  a  good  man." 

"  I  guess  Dan  ain't  different  from  all  men  —  made  to 
eat  supper  no  matter  how  much  singin'  or  cookin'  goes  to 
gettin'  the  vittles  on  the  table,"  was  Ali  Baba's  emphatic 
summary  of  the  situation. 

Lorraine  did  call  on  Thurley  and  bring  a   daintily 

63 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

wrapped  blue  tissue  paper  parcel  containing  one  of  her 
embroidered  "  sets  "  for  the  washstand  of  any  conven- 
tional, country  spare  room.  Lorraine  had  remained  with 
the  older  generation  in  her  standards  of  house  furnish- 
ings and  necessities. 

The  blue  tissue  paper  matched  her  blue  batiste  frock 
with  its  crisp  ruffles  and  the  ribbon  on  her  hat.  Lorraine 
had  made  the  dress  and  trimmed  the  hat,  and  it  gave  the 
impression  of  good  taste  and  praiseworthy  industry. 
There  was  nothing  Lorraine  could  or  would  not  attempt 
to  do,  once  convinced  it  was  her  duty.  She  had  the  an- 
gelic sweetness  of  really  unselfish  natures  and  the  accom- 
panying stubbornness  of  which  martyrs  are  made.  She 
was  a  trifle  weak,  perhaps,  during  a  crisis,  and  certainly 
lacked  Thurley's  aggression  and  power  of  argument. 
But  Lorraine  could  sustain  a  situation  —  long  after  Thur- 
ley  was  forced,  by  temperament,  to  abandon  it!  Not 
even  her  estimable  father  dreamed  that  on  the  day  Lor- 
raine's mother  died,  the  child  soul  of  her  had  closed  and 
grownups  scratched  on  it  in  vain.  It  was  her  duty,  she 
was  convinced,  not  to  mourn  openly. 

It  had  been  her  father's  duty  to  have  Lorraine  brought 
up,  and  a  maiden  aunt's  duty  to  forego  the  luxury  of  her 
severe  but  unhampered  existence  to  see  that  Lorraine  was 
properly  raised.  And  it  was  Lorraine's  duty  to  repay  the 
bringing  up  and  to  take  the  place  of  the  minister's  wife 
and  be  the  minister's  daughter  at  the  same  time,  to  enter- 
tain deacons  and  visiting  circuit  riders  and  ladies'  aid  so- 
cieties alike,  to  clean  the  best  room  for  the  missionaries 
and  cook  for  them  and  pray  for  the  conversion  of  the 
heathen  all  in  the  same  day,  to  be  not  too  prominent 
as  the  minister's  daughter  and  yet  to  take  the  neces- 
sary lead  in  all  things  even  unto  making  a  house  to  house 
canvass  to  solicit  her  father's  back  salary  or  enough 

64 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

knives  and  forks  to  serve  the  entire  congregation  at  the 
baked  bean  supper! 

Likewise,  it  was  her  duty  not  to  think  how  pretty  she 
was  —  that  frail,  elusive  sort  of  beauty  which  does  not 
impress  the  first  time  one  meets  it  but  which,  after  one 
has  become  familiar  with  it,  fairly  coaxes  its  way  into  the 
heart  to  remain.  (No  one  having  merely  "  glimpsed  " 
Thurley  would  have  ever  forgotten  her!)  Because  Lor- 
raine had  innocent,  dove-colored  eyes  and  the  fairest  of 
fair  hair  and  tilted  features  with  dimples  placed  irregu- 
larly about,  she  was  misjudged  as  to  her  abilities.  No 
one  would  have  dreamed  that  the  girl  painstakingly  wrote 
the  burden  of  her  father's  letters  and  helped  to  soften  his 
harshest  of  sermons,  particularly  those  on  predestination 
and  heresy,  and  then  turned  into  the  kitchen  to  do  the 
work  of  stout-elbowed  women !  Nor  did  that  com- 
prise all  of  her  duty.  To  her  fell  those  prosaic,  uninter- 
esting tasks  such  as  taking  old  shoes  to  be  mended  in  order 
to  avoid  buying  new,  or  re-lining  her  father's  threadbare 
coats  or  rummaging  endless  drawers  to  find  a  recipe  for 
walnut  catsup  to  satisfy  some  bromidic  but  important 
sister  of  the  church. 

It  was  her  duty  not  to  love  Dan  too  hard  and  become 
a  sentimental  goose,  she  told  herself  as  night  after  night 
she  wrestled  with  her  conscience,  trying  not  to  hate  Thur- 
ley Precore  as  such  small,  dainty  creatures,  to  every  one's 
surprise,  can  hate.  Of  course  Dan  would  marry  Thur- 
ley or  else  marry  no  one;  he  would  build  the  lovely  home 
for  her  and  buy  her  endless  pretty  clothes,  for  every 
one  knew  Thurley  could  not  even  darn  stockings  skil- 
fully —  she  admitted  it  with  one  of  her  boyish  laughs ! 
He  would  also  buy  her  a  new  automobile  and  a  con- 
cert grand  piano;  and  she  would  be  his  loved  and 
trusted  wife,  mother  of  his  children,  and  when  Lor- 

65 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

raine  would  come  to  this  part  of  her  reverie,  the  dimples 
would  become  quivering  dents  of  emotion  and  the  ortho- 
dox prayers  her  father  fancied  were  being  said  would 
vanish  completely.  Of  course,  she  would  comfort  her- 
self, Thurley  would  never  make  Dan  happy  —  she  sang 
too  well !  Even  this  was  salt  in  the  wound,  for  was  not 
Thurley  paid  soloist  at  her  father's  church  and  was 
not  Lorraine  obliged  to  sit  Sunday  after  Sunday  in  the 
first  pew  and  listen  to  Thurley's  wonderful  voice  sing  glo- 
rious anthems  while  behind  Lorraine  was  Dan  Birge, 
present  only  because  he  could  take  Thurley  home?  .  .  . 
And  Lorraine  had  to  say  to  him,  because  it  was  more  of 
her  duty,  "  Good  morning,  Dan;  wasn't  the  solo  wonder- 
ful? I  think  Thurley's  voice  is  better  all  the  time. 
Good  morning,  Thurley  dear,  we've  just  been  saying  what 
a  marvel  you  are  —  good-by.  Oh,  good  morning,  Mrs. 
Turner,  I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  invitation  for  the 
quilting  party  —  yes,  I'd  love  to  come  —  oh,  thank 
you — "  and  so  on,  her  heart  thumping  uncontrollably 
fast. 

After  greeting  the  congregation,  she  must  go  into  the 
parsonage  and  cook  dinner  and  try  to  eat  as  she  listened 
to  her  father's  small  talk;  she  must  wash  the  dishes  and 
return  to  the  church  to  teach  the  Bible  class  in  the  three 
o'clock  Sabbath  school  —  while  all  the  time  she  knew  Dan 
and  Thurley  were  whirling  about  the  lovely  hilly  country, 
stopping  at  some  shady,  brook-embraced  glen  to  eat  their 
luncheon  and  make  love !  And  again,  a  cold  tea  at  six 
and  Lorraine  must  once  more  play  scullery  maid  and  then 
go  into  the  evening  service  and  know  Dan  was  behind  her 
waiting  impatiently  until  Thurley's  duties  were  ended  and 
they  might  go  back  to  Betsey  Pilrig's  porch  or  parlor  and 
with  mellow  moonlight  as  witness  —  spoon!  That  was 

66 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  truth  —  spoon !  Lorraine's  flat  little  chest  would 
heave  excitedly  and  she  would  drop  her  eyes  and  force 
herself  to  count  the  dots  in  her  frock  —  the  third  summer 
for  it  —  to  steady  herself  until  she  could  glance  up  at 
Thurley  in  the  choir  loft  and  realize  that  she  was  the 
gladest,  loveliest  thing  in  two  worlds,  a  wild  rose  by  all 
the  poets'  dictionaries! 

So  when  she  climbed  the  hill  to  Betsey  Pilrig's  house 
and  Betsey  went  to  call  Thurley,  Lorraine  sank  into  the 
parlor  chair  and  gave  vent  to  a  faint  groan.  If  it  were 
any  other  girl  save  Thurley,  she  could  endure  it  more 
easily,  but  Thurley  was  so  careless  of  his  love,  she  so 
undervalued  it!  She  heard  Thurley  humming  a  gay 
song  and  running  down  the  stairs. 

"  You  nice  creature !  "  Thurley  said  carelessly,  kissing 
her  and  trying  to  remove  her  hat  at  the  same  time.  "  Do 
take  it  off,  'Raine,  it's  such  a  climb  up  here.  There,  now 
I  can  see  your  eyes !  "  Thurley  did  not  realize  how  un- 
kind was  this  last.  "  Sit  there  —  it's  a  comfy  chair  — 
well,  I  know  what  you've  come  to  say,"  she  blushed  prop- 
erly, "  but  if  Dan  could  see  me  I  know  he'd  be  quite 
shocked,  I  look  anything  but  a  prospective  young  ma- 
tron — 'fess  up,  'Raine  !  " 

Lorraine  shook  her  head.  "  Dan  wouldn't  care  how 
you  looked  as  long  as  you  would  marry  him,"  she  began 
bravely.  "  You  know  that."  It  was  harder  than  she 
had  steeled  herself  to  expect.  Thurley  was  so  careless 
of  her  great  joy,  she  seemed  a  strange  creature  not  be- 
longing to  any  well-ordered  town  as  she  sat  gracefully  on 
the  arm  of  a  sofa,  her  dark  hair  braided  about  her  head 
and  the  rumpled  pink  linen  frock  emphasizing  the  color 
of  her  cheeks. 

"  Well,  maybe  not.  I'm  hoping  he'll  always  feel  that 

67 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

way.  I  didn't  want  to  announce  it,  but  Dan  wouldn't 
wait  any  longer.  Of  course  we've  been  half  engaged  for 
about  two  years." 

"  Yes,  I  know."  Lorraine  wondered  if  her  voice 
sounded  metallic. 

"  So  I  said  yes,  and  now  Dan  is  neglecting  business. 
He  was  here  at  half-past  eight  this  morning  to  ask  if  I 
wanted  the  walls  tinted  or  papered;  and  he's  gone  right 
ahead  and  ordered  a  most  extravagant  ring  —  two  carat 
in  platinum  —  really,  I  don't  approve  for  I'm  so  careless 
of  all  my  things  I'm  bound  to  lose  it.  I'd  rather  he 
didn't  start  the  house  either.  If  I  were  only  like  you,  I'd 
be  delighted  with  the  prospect  of  a  pantry  and  a  million 
shelves  and  drawers  and  the  promise  of  any  sort  of  range 
or  fireless  cooker  and  all  the  other  appliances,  but  I'm  not 
even  interested." 

"  You're  not?  Why,  Thurley,  Dan  will  have  to  eat! 
What  does  interest  you?  " 

"  The  garden  and  the  color  of  my  room  and,  most  of 
all,  my  piano.  For  I'm  to  have  a  baby  grand  piano  of 
my  very  own  —  I  won't  have  to  practise  on  the  Sunday 
school  piano  any  more.  I'm  half  afraid  I'm  marrying 
Dan  for  that  piano  —  don't  look  shocked  —  I'm  not,  of 
course,  only  it  means  a  great  deal." 

"  I  can't  imagine  it !  But  of  course  I  haven't  your 
voice."  Unconsciously  Lorraine  glanced  out  the  window 
and  across  the  road  to  where,  sinking  into  comfortable 
ruin,  stood  a  tottering  old  box-car  wagon,  the  one  in 
which  Thurley  had  travelled  all  the  way  from  Boulder, 
Colorado ! 

"  I  wish  Philena  were  here,  she'd  have  so  loved  a  wed- 
ding," Thurley  said  presently,  "  and  Granny  wouldn't  be 
so  lonesome.  Did  I  tell  you  that  Dan  says  she's  to  have 
his  old  rooms  at  the  hotel,  unless  she'll  live  with  us?  She 

68 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

says  she  won't,  so,  of  course,  the  other  way  is  easy  and 
lovely  for  her." 

"  He's  very  generous,"  Lorraine  sighed.  She  held  out 
her  parcel.  "  It  is  just  a  well-wisher,  as  we  say,"  she 
added.  "  Nothing,  of  course,  like  your  other  things  will 
be,  but  I  made  it  myself  and  perhaps  you  will  like  it  be- 
cause of  that." 

Lorraine  had  embroidered  faint  dreams  and  hopes  of 
some  day  using  the  set  in  her  house  —  and  Dan  Birge's  — 
into  the  pattern.  She  had  many  such  trifles  tucked  away 
in  a  chest  of  walnut  drawers. 

"  You're  a  dear —  I'm  so  clumsy  with  a  needle  —  and 
it  is  beautiful !  "  Thurley  said  as  she  opened  the  package. 
"  Just  fancy  you  doing  all  this!  Oh,  Lorraine,  I've  told 
Dan,  so  many  times,  '  You  ought  to  marry  Lorraine  in- 
stead of  me  —  she'd  make  you  such  a  good  wife.'  But 
men  don't  pay  any  attention  to  common  sense  when 
they're  in  love,"  she  rattled  on. 

"  Did  you,  really?  "  Lorraine  put  her  little  hand  on 
Thurley's  sleeve. 

"  Dozens  of  times." 

"  And  did  —  did  Dan  ever  answer  you?  " 

Thurley  turned  to  look  thoughtfully  at  her  small  guest. 
"  Well,"  she  began  awkwardly,  "  he  said  that  he  just  hap- 
pened to  love  me.  I  suppose  it's  that  way  lots  of  times 
—  people  love  certain  people  whether  it's  best  or  not. 
When  you  come  to  see  me,  this  set  shall  be  in  the  best 
room  I  have  —  truly.  And  I  want  you  to  teach  me  lots 
of  things  you  know  —  cooking  and  sewing  and  how  al- 
ways to  be  even  tempered.  Why,  I'm  cross  as  a  witch 
one  minute  and  jolly  as  a  gypsy  the  next,  and  I  do  want  to 
make  him  happy!  "  There  was  an  earnest  catch  in  her 
voice.  "  He's  been  so  good  to  me  —  I've  nothing  to 
offer  him  but  myself." 

69 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  That  is  all  he  wants,"  Lorraine  made  herself  answer, 
reaching  for  her  hat.  "  Are  you  going  to  sing  any  other 
place  besides  church?  " 

"  I  think  so;  Dan  thinks  not.  After  all,  if  you  have 
some  one  who  loves  you  very  much  and  is  always  willing 
to  listen  to  you  sing,  I  suppose  you  ought  to  do  as  he 
says." 

"  How  can  you  do  anything  he  doesn't  wish  you  to?  " 
Lorraine  asked  passionately.  "  You'd  be  wicked  —  with 
him  loving  you  so  hard!  "  Then,  ashamed  of  her  con- 
fession, she  said  a  confused  good-by  and  hurried  out  in 
time  to  have  a  ride  with  a  passing  farmer. 

Thurley  took  the  "  set  "  to  show  to  Betsey  Pilrig. 
"  See  what  'Raine  has  given  your  lazy  Thurley,"  she  said 
penitently.  "  I'm  beginning  to  feel  out  of  sorts  with  my- 
self—  I  don't  know  why.  As  if  I  ought  to  have  been 
making  wedding  clothes  when  she  called  or  scalding  over 
preserves  or  something  like  that,  instead  of  staying  up- 
stairs and  learning  a  new  opera  aria.  Granny,  aren't  you 
sorry  you  let  this  long-legged,  noisy  creature  stay  in  your 
house?"  She  knelt  beside  the  old  woman  and  clasped 
her  arms  around  Betsey's  waist. 

Betsey  shook  her  head.  "  No,  because  Philena  loved 
you  —  and  when  Philena  died,  she  told  me  to  take  care  of 
you." 

"  And  now  I'm  going  to  take  care  of  you,  and  you're 
never  going  to  work." 

She  rose  and  walked  into  the  parlor,  opening  the  sacred 
shutters  wide  and  seating  herself  at  the  old-time  organ 
with  its  carpet-covered  pedals  and  apricot  plush  stool. 
She  began  playing  chords,  her  blue  eyes  looking  across 
the  road,  beyond  the  old  box-car  wagon,  as  if  she  saw 
visions  of  worlds  still  to  be  conquered  —  the  worlds  that 
the  child  Thurley  had  pledged  herself  to  know. 

7° 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

There  was  little  in  Betsey  Pilrig's  house  of  value  to 
Thurley,  but  mere  furnishings  never  mattered.  She  was 
oblivious  to  shabby  carpets,  and,  when  she  dusted  the  par- 
lor furniture  or  set  the  table  with  nicked  and  varied 
styles  of  china,  she  was  too  busy  singing  or  thinking  of 
Dan  to  notice  her  actual  surroundings.  Nor  did  clothes 
bother  Thurley  —  she  was  happy  in  a  white  middy  blouse 
and  a  serge  skirt  and  quite  as  beautiful  as  if  she  wore  a 
Paquin  creation.  Besides,  Thurley  rebelled  at  taking 
help  from  Betsey  Pilrig  and  her  only  way  of  earning 
money  was  limited.  Even  if  one  was  the  best  singer  and 
piano  teacher  in  the  township  with  the  commendation  of 
having  learned:  first,  all  Kate  Sills  knew,  which  ended 
with  an  E  flat  valse  and  "  Dixie  "  with  variations;  and, 
second,  all  that  a  small  city  organist  could  teach  her  dur- 
ing his  summer  vacation  spent  in  the  Corners,  and,  last, 
all  Thurley  herself  taught  herself  by  diligent  practice  and 
"  just  coming  natural  to  her  " —  even  so,  who  wanted  to 
pay  more  than  twenty-five  cents  an  hour  to  learn  how  to 
sing  or  play  on  the  piano?  So  Thurley  was  forced  to 
content  herself  with  being  organist,  choir  mistress  and 
soloist  in  the  church,  with  a  dozen  pupils  to  round  out  her 
income.  Whenever  she  begged  Dan  to  let  her  clerk  in 
his  store,  he  always  asked  her  to  marry  him,  thus  block- 
ading her  desire. 

With  a  restless  gesture  she  closed  the  organ.  "  Ho- 
hum,  I  need  Dan  to  make  love  to  me,"  she  ruminated. 
"  I  can't  seem  to  make  myself  take  anything  seriously.  I 
wonder  why  God  made  the  Precores  stop  off  here  instead 
of  a  city  —  things  would  have  been  different  in  a  city. 
.  .  ."  A  moment  later  she  mentally  upbraided  herself, 
"As  if  you  weren't  the  luckiest  girl  in  the  world!  You 
ought  to  get  down  on  your  knees  and  ask  poor  'Raine  to 
forgive  you,  and  Dan  and  Granny,  too.  .  .  .  Go  out  and 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

start  a  patchwork  quilt  this  instant  and  don't  let  a  single 
song  be  heard  in  this  house  until  it  is  a  third  finished!  " 

But  the  scolding  seemed  to  have  no  effect,  for,  instead, 
she  reopened  the  organ  and  sang  the  opera  aria  she  had 
just  learned.  As  she  finished  it,  she  spied  Miss  Clergy's 
shabby  coupe  pausing  behind  the  clump  of  maple  trees. 

"  Why  —  that's  the  second  time  within  a  few  days !  " 
Thurley  said  delightedly.  "Now  —  I  wonder  .  .  ." 

With  the  exception  of  paying  her  wages  or  making 
some  childish  complaint,  Abigail  Clergy  seldom  spoke  to 
Hopeful.  It  was  an  event  to  be  summoned  into  those 
always  lighted,  seldom  aired  front  rooms,  crowded  with 
keepsakes  of  a  bygone  generation,  to  stand  before  the 
•chair  of  the  imperious  creature  in  her  rusty  black  silk  and 
hear  her  upbraidings  over  the  fact  that  harmless  urchins 
had  been  seen  crossing  the  Fincherie  lawn. 

During  the  first  tedious  years  of  Miss  Clergy's  self- 
imprisonment,  Hopeful,  then  younger  and  stronger  of 
spirit,  used  to  remonstrate  against  the  order  of  things, 
urge  a  new  doctor,  a  jaunt  to  the  seaside,  even  if  she  saw 
no  one.  She  tried  to  persuade  Miss  Clergy  to  wear  new 
gowns,  to  turn  off  the  penetrating  gaslights  which  burned 
day  and  night  no  matter  how  bright  the  sun  or  how  mel- 
low the  moon,  to  open  the  windows  and  let  the  fresh  air 
revive  her  spirits,  read  a  daily  paper  and,  gradually, 
gently  be  swept  back  into  the  current  of  everyday  living. 

To  none  of  these  suggestions  did  Miss  Clergy  lend 
anything  but  a  deaf  ear.  Her  life  had  become  her 
martyrdom  and  she  did  not  propose  to  lose  a  single  jot 
of  it.  With  the  exception  of  Ali  Baba,  who  had 
proved  himself  faithful  beyond  a  doubt,  Miss  Clergy 
had  registered  an  everlasting  hatred  and  distrust  of 
men,  it  mattered  not  who.  No  clergyman  dared  enter 

72 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

her  door;  her  physicians  were  women,  her  lawyers 
acted  as  if  they  had  been  sentenced  to  the  gallows 
and  were  merely  enjoying  a  brief  stay  of  execution.  No 
man  could  ever  command  even  her  respect,  she  had  told 
Hopeful;  no  woman  could  have  her  confidence  or  her 
love.  She  hated  all  living  creatures.  And  as  the  years 
passed  with  Miss  Clergy  a  trifle  more  wrinkled  of  skin, 
whiter  of  hair  and  distorted  of  mind,  Hopeful  ceased 
making  efforts  to  change  her  viewpoint.  Indeed,  she, 
too,  fell  into  a  sort  of  charmed,  even  existence,  free  from 
material  want  or  keenness  of  interest  in  the  world  with- 
out. The  Clergy  fortune  continued  to  multiply.  All 
Miss  Clergy  had  to  do  was  figuratively  to  wave  a  yel- 
lowed, jewelled  hand  and  a  barrel  of  gold  was  at  her  com- 
mand. Yet  no  repairs  were  permitted  to  be  made  at  the 
Fincherie,  not  even  a  new  coupe  nor  for  All  Baba  a  new 
livery.  And  when,  one  by  one,  the  old  mares  would  die 
and  the  purchase  of  another  was  inevitable,  Miss  Clergy 
would  fly  into  a  rage. 

When,  perforce,  Hopeful  demanded  to  clean  the  two 
front  rooms,  Miss  Clergy  would  scold  sharply,  as  she 
moved  into  one  of  them,  waiting  with  added  martyrdom 
until  she  could  fly  back  into  the  other  to  complain  about 
some  minute  change  in  the  placing  of  a  book  or  the  posi- 
tion of  a  chair. 

The  rest  of  the  house,  however,  was  left  to  Hopeful's 
guardianship,  and,  when  she  tried  to  persuade  Miss 
Clergy  to  come  downstairs  and  sit  in  the  pleasant  parlors 
or  eat  in  the  little  breakfast  room,  Miss  Clergy  would 
demand, 

"  Do  you  want  to  find  another  home  for  yourself, 
Hopeful?  Oh,  you  do  not.  Then  leave  me  in  peace  — 
at  least  I  am  mistress  of  my  own  house." 

She  never  spoke  to  Ali  Baba  save  the  daily,  "  An  hour's 

73 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

drive,  AH  Baba,  not  too  fast,"  and  by  the  world  at  large 
she  was  never  even  seen.  No  chanty  appeal  softened 
her  selfish,  useless  vigil;  no  cause,  however  worthy,  could 
lessen  her  hysterical  mimicry  of  disease.  No  one  was 
the  better  for  the  existence  of  that  small,  sinister  person 
with  a  withered  heart,  since  it  was  no  longer  even  bruised. 

And  when,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  Miss  Clergy  had 
stopped  for  the  second  time  to  hear  Thurley  sing,  she 
rang  the  bell  long  after  Hopeful  had  served  her  a  tray 
supper  and  said  almost  civilly  as  she  entered,  "  Sit  down, 
Hopeful.  I  want  to  ask  you  about  a  girl  named  Thurley 
Precore  who  sings  —  who  she  is  and  how  she  earns  her 
living  and  how  long  she  has  been  here,"  Hopeful  put  her 
tired  hand  to  her  head,  wondering  if  she  had  heard  aright. 

With  a  tyrannical  smile  Miss  Clergy  repeated  her  ques- 
tions. 

So  Hopeful  found  her  voice  after  a  bit  and  began  the 
story  of  Thurley's  singing  for  her  supper  up  to  the  time 
her  father  died  when  the  first  snow  flew  and  how  out  of 
charity  Betsey  Pilrig  had  taken  her  into  her  home  to  live 
with  Philena. 

"  Of  course  Betsey  didn't  have  much,  but  what  she  had 
she  divided  between  Philena  and  Thurley,  and  she's  said 
to  me  that  she  looked  on  Thurley  as  the  boy  and  Philena 
the  girl.  Because  Thurley  is  one  of  those  that'll  get 
themselves  heard,  if  they're  born  in  the  backwoods. 
There  wasn't  much  to  Philena  but  her  big  eyes  and  her 
crutch,  and  you  ought  to  have  seen  the  way  Thurley 
looked  out  for  her  and  toted  her  on  her  back,  pretend- 
ing she  wasn't  heavy!  My  land,  I've  watched  those 
children  play  together  until  I  was  late  with  my  work!  " 

"  What  did  they  play?  "  interrupted  Miss  Clergy. 

"  Missionary  and  play-actin'  and  all  such  stuff,  and 
Thurley  made  it  up.  No  matter  what  Thurley  made  up, 

74 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Philena  said  she  liked  it.  I  never  will  forget  the  Christ- 
mas Philena  made  a  travellin'  chest  for  Thurley  out  of 
an  ol'  tea-box  she  got  down  to  Submit  Curler's  store ! 
She  fitted  it  up  inside  with  cretonne  pockets  and  a  lookin' 
glass  and  wrote  on  a  card,  '  For  Thurley  when  she  goes 
to  be  a  missionary!  '  Wasn't  that  the  queerest  thing  for 
a  young  un  to  think  of?  Philena  was  to  be  a  missionary, 
too,  and  Thurley  was  to  sing  the  songs.  Oh,  Thurley 
can  sing !  When  they  graduated  from  the  high  school  — 
Philena  didn't  live  long  after  that  —  Philena  read  a 
graduating  essay  and  Thurley  sang  a  song  and  there 
wasn't  no  applause  for  Philena,  except  what  me  and 
Betsey  and  Ali  Baba  mustered  up,  but  everybody  stamped 
their  feet  to  have  Thurley  come  back  and  sing.  There 
was  a  sort  of  tableau,  too,  at  the  church,  for  Children's 
Sunday  —  seven  children  were  the  seven  days  of  the 
week,  and  wasn't  it  queer  that  Thurley  was  Saturday, 
Philena  was  Sunday  and  Lorraine  McDowell,  Monday?  " 

"  What  of  it?  "  snapped  Miss  Clergy. 

"  It  means  that  '  Saturday's  child  must  work  for  a 
living '  and  Thurley  said,  '  That's  me  —  Saturday.' 
And  '  Sunday's  child  is  full  of  grace,'  and  certainly 
Philena  was,  and  '  Monday's  child  is  fair  of  face,'  and 
nobody  would  ever  want  to  see  a  prettier  child  than  Lor- 
raine was  —  or  is  — " 

"  Never  mind  her!  Go  on  about  Thurley,"  Hopeful 
was  ordered. 

"  It  was  the  next  month  Philena  died,  and  Betsey  spent 
half  she  had  in  the  bank  to  bury  her  the  way  she  thought 
she'd  like  —  a  lavender  coffin  with  quilted  satin  and  she 
wore  her  graduating  dress  and  a  jet  hair  ornament  that 
Thurley  give  her  and  Thurley  sang  at  the  funeral  and 
never  broke  down  onct!  Some  say  Thurley  Precore 
never  loved  no  one,  but  I  know  she  loved  Philena,  and 

75 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

since  then  she  stayed  on  at  Betsey's  and  earned  money 
singin'  and  teachin'  piano  and  it  seems  as  if  she  couldn't 
put  her  mind  on  nothin'  else  ...  I  dunno  — " 

'Who's  the  —  boy?"  There  was  a  rasping  tone  in 
her  voice.  "  The  boy  she  is  engaged  to  marry?  " 

1  Why,  Dan  Birge  — " 

"  Birge  — "  memories  stirred  in  the  numbed  brain. 

"  Grandson  of  the  one  you  knew,  Miss  Abby.  Dearie 
me,  you've  lost  count  of  years !  "  Hopeful  shook  her 
head. 

'  Will  she  be  fool  enough  to  marry  him?  "  Miss  Clergy 
insisted. 

"  He'll  marry  no  one  else,  I  guess.  Seems  as  if  he's 
always  cared  for  her  and  she's  made  a  man  of  him,  too." 

"  That  will  do,  Hopeful.  The  omelette  was  like 
leather  and  don't  put  flowers  on  my  tray  again."  Miss 
Clergy's  dismissal  was  as  brusque  as  her  greeting. 

Below,  Ali  Baba  and  Hopeful  exchanged  opinions. 
After  thirty  some  years  of  seclusion  Abby  Clergy  had 
begun  to  care  to  hear  of  some  one  else. 

"  Well,  if  any  one  else  could  make  her  care,  it  would 
be  Thurley,"  Ali  Baba  deduced,  while  Hopeful  paused 
in  the  wiping  of  the  last  pot  to  say  sagely, 

"  If  she  could,  she'd  have  Dan  Birge  blown  off  the 
face  of  the  earth,  just  because  he  wants  to  marry  Thur- 
ley." 

"  Some  wimmen  takes  it  harder'n  others,"  muttered  Ali 
Baba  whose  patience  with  Miss  Clergy  was  not  of  the 
same  duration  as  his  cousin  Hopeful's. 

For  the  first  time  in  thirty-some  years  Abby  Clergy 
actually  opened  the  shutter  of  her  window  and  let  in 
the  summer  breeze.  She  drew  a  chair  close  beside  it 
and  rested  her  thin  arms  on  the  window  ledge.  A  flush 
in  the  yellowed  cheeks  betrayed  her  excitement;  her  harsh 

76 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

voice  was  trying  to  hum  the  aria  Thurley  had  sung  so 
carelessly  that  afternoon.  By  chance  it  was  the  solo 
aria  in  the  last  opera  Abby  Clergy  had  seen.  She  had 
been  escorted  by  Sebastian  Gomez  the  pretender,  and 
every  one  had  turned  opera  glasses  to  look  at  this 
beautiful  American  girl  who  was  to  marry  a  supposedly 
dashing  nobleman,  according  to  newspaper  gossips. 
What  time  and  happenings  had  occurred  since  then! 
And  Thurley,  who  had  stirred  the  last  spark  of  life  in 
the  embers  of  Miss  Abby's  heart,  was  to  marry  a  country 
bumpkin,  a  Birge,  a  storekeeper  probably,  a  slangy,  serge- 
suited,  whistling  nuisance  with  an  odious  bulldog  and 
a  new-fangled  automobile  —  never!  Not  if  the  Clergy 
fortune  could  prevent  itl 


77 


CHAPTER  VII 

Busied  with  her  "  penance  "  of  quilting,  the  next  day, 
Thurley  was  summoned  by  a  peremptory  rap  at  the  side 
door.  It  was  Ali  Baba,  his  shabby  silk  hat  laid  across 
his  heart  after  the  fashion  of  pictures  of  cavaliers  which 
he  had  chanced  to  see  in  old-time  novels. 

"  I've  an  invitation  from  the  queen,"  he  said  with  a 
bit  of  dry  humor.  "  After  she  heard  you  sing,  she  wants 
to  tell  you  how  you  please  her.  Don't  refuse  or  we'll 
all  be  beheaded  in  the  tower!  Thurley  dear,  I'm  a  silly 
old  man  —  what  I  mean  is  that  Abigail  Clergy  wants  you 
to  drive  with  her.  She  won't  harm  you  —  she's  as 
sane  as  you  or  I  —  only  she  heard  you  sing  and  she  liked 
it.  For  land's  sake  and  Mrs.  Davis,  don't  refuse! 
We'd  lose  the  one  chance  of  maybe  makin'  her  be  her  own 
self  again.  Never  mind  a  hat;  just  go  out  to  the  coupe 
and  drive  about  with  her.  Let  her  talk  to  you!  "  The 
hand  which  held  the  silk  hat  trembled  from  excitement. 

To  have  lived  with  a  haunted  creature  for  over  thirty 
years  and  suddenly  have  that  haunted  creature  express 
a  normal  desire  was  nothing  less  than  terrifying  to  the 
two  aged  servitors. 

"  Me?  Drive  with  Abby  Clergy?  Ali  Baba,  sure  it's 
not  a  joke?  Come?  Of  course  I  will,"  and  with  no 
more  thought  for  her  "  penance,"  Thurley  danced  out  of 
the  house,  down  the  flagstone  walk  and  with  an  abrupt, 
determined  hand  opened  the  door  of  the  curtained  coupe. 

Trembling  with  excitement  herself,  Miss  Clergy  man- 
aged to  extend  her  hand.  "  I  wanted  to  tell  you  some- 

78 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

thing,  Thurley  Precore,"  she  began.  "  All  Baba  —  an 
hour's  drive  —  not  too  fast!  "  this  a  discreet  hint  to  Ali 
Baba  that  eavesdropping  was  not  to  be  tolerated,  and, 
as  Melba  stalked  down  the  road,  injured  to  the  last 
buckle  of  her  shining  harness  at  the  extra  weight  thrust 
upon  her,  Thurley  turned  an  unaffectedly  delighted  face 
to  Miss  Clergy  and  said, 

"  What  in  the  world  is  it?  You've  no  idea  how  larky 
it  is  to  drive  with  you  —  I've  made  up  stories  about  you 
ever  since  I  found  my  way  into  your  house  years  ago  — 
the  side  way —  and  you  ran  after  me,"  her  clear,  musical 
laugh  seemed  to  clear  the  atmosphere  of  excited  unrest. 

"  So  it  was  you  !  Strange  .  .  .  never  mind  myself  — 
tell  me,  have  you  always  sung  like  this?  " 

"  Of  course !  I  can't  help  it  any  more  than  to 
breathe." 

"  You  have  no  relatives  —  no  one  nearer  than  Betsey 
Pilrig?" 

Thurley  admitted  sorrowfully  that  she  had  not. 

"Nor  money?" 

"  Not  a  penny!     But  I'm  the  happiest  pauper  alive." 

"  I  hear  you  are  to  marry,"  Miss  Clergy's  voice  broke 
as  she  said  the  words,  "  the  Birge  boy?  My  dear,  I'm 
not  so  old  as  I  seem,  but  I  had  a  great  sorrow  when  I 
was  younger  than  you  and  it  changed  everything.  I've 
never  chosen  to  explain  to  the  world,  since  I  was  not  de- 
pendent on  it,  and  if  I  preferred  to  live  alone  and  brood, 
it  was  my  right.  But  this  much  do  I  know,  and  because 
you  are  young  and  have  a  God-given  talent,  I  shall  tell 
you.  You  are  a  fool  —  as  great  a  fool  in  your  way  as 
I  was  in  mine  to  trust  the  man  who  cheated  me  —  to 
marry  a  country  boy  and  try  to  be  content.  You'll  be 
running  off  with  the  first  goodlooking  stranger  that 
comes  your  way  ...  ah,  but  I  know,  times  never  have 

79 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

changed  women's  hearts.  They  eloped  years  ago  by  a 
team  of  fast  horses,  and  now  they  do  it  by  the  aid  of  an 
automobile,  and  in  a  little  while  they'll  be  eloping  in  a 
flying  machine.  You  see,  I'm  not  so  queer  as  people  say, 
I've  kept  up  a  bit!  Birges  have  bad  tempers.  I  knew 
the  grandfather,  and  they  are  Englishmen  regarding  their 
wives.  You  can  sing  and  you  are  young  and  spirited; 
you  should  go  away  to  New  York  and  have  teachers  and 
the  chance  to  become  great.  I  am  not  telling  you  this 
to  break  your  engagement,  but  from  your  eyes  I  see  that 
singing  is  as  dear  to  you  as  Daniel  Birge  or  you  would 
have  stopped  me  when  I  first  mentioned  his  name.  Is 
that  not  so?  " 

"  Quite,"  said  Thurley  simply. 

"  Then  remember  this !  Should  some  disagreement 
come  between  you  two,  I  could  not  say  what,"  she 
shrugged  her  black  shoulders  and  waved  the  withered 
hands  with  their  flashing  rings,  "  say,  if  you  wanted  to 
sing  and  he  tried  to  prevent  you  from  so  doing  —  as  all 
beasts  of  men  try  to  cheat  women  of  the  things  dearest 
to  them,"  her  teeth  made  a  grinding,  unpleasant  noise, 
"  if  you  should  be  brave  enough  and  big  enough,  as  I 
think  you  would  be,  to  tell  this  boy  to  go  his  way  and 
you  with  your  voice  would  go  yours,  come  to  me,  Thur- 
ley! I  may  be  odd,  but  I  am  very  rich,  and  your  sing- 
ing has  made  me  realize  I'm  a  lonesome  old  woman. 
I'd  like  nothing  better,  my  child,  than  to  take  you  to 
New  York  to  make  you  the  success  God  intended.  Don't 
thank  me.  It  is  not  goodness  of  heart  —  not  half  so 
much  'as  revenge.  If  you  came  with  Dan  Birge's  child 
in  your  arms  and  told  me  he  was  out  of  work  and  you 
needed  aid,  I'm  afraid  I  would  have  a  deaf  ear.  But 
I  want  to  cheat  some  man  of  the  woman  he  loves,  to 
turn  the  tables.  This  boy  loves  you  in  his  over-colored, 

80 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

peasant  way.  It  would  break  his  heart,  as  nearly  as 
any  man's  heart  can  be  broken,  to  have  you  leave  him. 
It  would  sting  his  pride  and  scratch  his  vanity — " 

"  But  Dan  is  true  blue,  Miss  Clergy!  I  couldn't 
hurt  him  to  please  any  one." 

"No,  but  if  he  forbade  your  singing — as  he  will  — 
and  you  were  lucky  enough  to  find  it  out  before  you 
married  him  instead  of  afterwards  —  what  then? 
Would  you  meekly  lock  your  piano  and  follow  him  into 
the  kitchen?  What  then?  Speak  up,  my  girl!  Re- 
member, I  am  not  trying  to  cause  trouble.  I  ask  you 
only  for  the  promise.  Should  you  have  an  argument 
with  your  —  your  lover,  come  to  me;  do  not  weaken! 
I  am  rich  —  and  lonesome  —  and  your  voice  has  made 
me  know  I  want  to  love  some  one  again  —  just  before  I 
die.  I'll  let  you  out  here,  my  dear.  You  can  scamper 
back.  Don't  forget,  will  you,  Thurley?" 

She  pressed  the  tube  for  Ali  Baba  to  halt.  Thurley, 
bewildered,  impressed,  angered,  yet  amused,  all  in  one, 
knew  that  yellowed  lips  brushed  her  fresh  cheek,  and, 
when  she  looked  up  to  say  good-by,  there  were  tears  in 
Abby  Clergy's  restless  eyes  1 

Fate  sometimes  pursues  people,  even  if  they  are  not 
willing  to  be  pursued.  Certainly  it  was  fate  pursued 
Thurley  Precore.  As  she  came  to  Betsey  Pilrig's  gate 
tingling  with  excitement,  inclined  to  laugh  and  then  to 
protest  against  the  abuse  of  Dan,  and,  finally,  to  cry  a 
little  like  a  true  woman,  she  glanced  in  the  letter-box 
to  find  an  offer  from  Rufus  Westcott,  manager  of  the 
South  Wales  county  fair.  He  asked  if  Thurley  would 
sing  during  fair  week  at  five  dollars  a  night,  and  to  let 
him  know  as  soon  as  possible. 

Betsey  Pilrig  wondered  why  Thurley  stayed  so  long 
at  the  gate  reading  her  letter.  But  only  Thurley  knew ! 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Miss  Clergy  had  spoken  barely  in  time.     An  hour  be- 
fore and  Thurley  would  have  said  to  Dan, 

"  Please  let  me.     You  can  take  me  home  every  night 

—  I   want  to  —  there's   no   harm   and   it's   such   a   lark 

—  please,"  and  would  have  ended  in  being  coaxed  out 
of  her  desire. 

But  she  marched  into  the  dining-room,  and,  sitting  at 
the  table,  opened  a  writing  pad  and  picked  up  a  pencil. 
Fate  did  not  even  let  her  wait  for  ink!  She  accepted 
Mr.  Westcott's  offer  with  pleasure  and  would  send  him 
her  programme  of  songs  inside  of  two  days. 

Signing  her  name,  she  glanced  up  to  see  Betsey  Pilrig 
standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Thurley,  you  look  up  to  mischief!  Where  have 
you  been?  " 

Thurley  sealed  the  envelope  with  an  emphatic  little 
thump,  "  I  can't  tell  you  until  I've  told  Dan." 

"  I  guess  as  long  as  you  tell  Dan  first,  I  can  wait," 
Betsey  answered. 

But  had  she  witnessed  the  telling  she  would  not  have 
complacently  made  beaten  biscuit,  wondering  if  Dan  was 
coming  home  for  supper  with  Thurley. 

For  Thurley,  racing  impatiently  back  from  the  post 
office  to  keep  her  daily  tryst  with  Dan,  had  come  upon 
him  returning  from  the  cemetery. 

"  You're  an  hour  late,"  he  complained. 

She  started  to  explain  and  then  something  kept  "  tick- 
ing "  these  words  into  her  head  like  an  insistent  clock, 
"  I  am  rich  and  lonesome  and  your  voice  has  made  me 
know  I  want  to  love  some  one  again."  So  all  she  an- 
swered was, 

u  Must  I  account  to  you  for  every  moment?  "  flinging 
herself  down  by  the  road  and  playing  with  Zaza. 

Although  he  felt  he  ought  to  tower  down  at  her  in 

82 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

conventional,  jealous  rage,  Dan  seated  himself  meekly  be- 
side her.  "Why,  I  didn't  mean  it  that  way!  Only 
you're  never  late  and  I  worried.  I  was  afraid  you  were 
hurt.  You  are  going  to  be  my  wife  and  I've  the  right 
to  ask  questions.  What's  wrong,  dear?  Your  eyes  are 
like  stars  and  your  cheeks  as  pink  as  your  dress !  You 
look  as  if  you'd  found  some  one  you  liked  better  than 
you  do  me,"  he  could  not  refrain  from  adding.  "  Do 
you  know  I'm  terribly  envious  of  any  one  you  like  at  all? 
I'd  like  to  lock  away  all  your  smiles  for  myself." 

"  Silly,"  reproached  Thurley,  as  she  trailed  a  stick 
in  front  of  Zaza.  "  As  if  I  couldn't  have  personal  er- 
rands. I  don't  go  asking  you  where  you  are  every  min- 
ute in  the  day — " 

"  I'd  rather  you  did  than  to  seem  not  to  care."  He 
tried  to  put  his  arm  around  her,  but  she  drew  away. 

"  Don't!  It's  terribly  childish  to  make  love  at  every 
fence  corner.  Let's  be  dignified  —  not  boy  and  girl 
style!  I  don't  like  it  any  more." 

"  You  used  to,"  he  objected. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  was  just  the  young  of  me  that  liked  ex- 
citement. There  isn't  any  excitement  at  the  Corners  un- 
less the  gods  happen  to  favor  one.  I've  been  thinking 
for  a  long  time  I  should  not  have  been  so  lazy  as  I  am, 
staying  at  Granny's  and  hardly  earning  my  '  keep.'  ' 

"  Have  you  been  reading  more  silly  books?  " 

"  Dan,  suppose  we  quarreled !  Well,  just  suppose  we 
did  —  and  Miss  Clergy,  the  funny  old  lady  at  the  Fin- 
cherie,  took  it  into  her  head  that  she  wanted  to  give  me 
a  chance  to  learn  how  to  sing  and  talk  and  dance  and  all 
the  things  that  are  just  crying  inside  of  me  to  be  learned ! 
Oh,  Dan,  dear,  don't  look  like  that!  I'm  just  supposing. 
And  suppose  I  decided  to  let  her  take  me  to  New  York 
—  and  our  engagement  was  broken,  would  you  care  so 

83 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

terribly?"  The  latent  maternal  in  Thurley  was  asking 
the  question;  it  lacked  the  usual  ruse  of  the  vapid  co- 
quette. 

He  looked  as  if  he  scarcely  comprehended  what  she 
had  said.  Then  he  answered,  "  Don't  suppose  that  way. 
Something  inside  me  would  just  die" 

Thurley's  handsome  eyebrows  drew  together  in  a 
straight  line.  "  Dan,"  she  added  a  moment  later,  "  I've 
promised  Rufus  Westcott,  the  county  fair  manager,  to 
sing  at  the  South  Wales  fair  every  night.  Do  you 
mind?" 

"  Never !  "  he  cried,  standing  up.  "  So  that's  what  has 
caused  this  talk?  I'll  not  let  my  future  wife  sing  at  a 
county  fair  with  painted  dancers  and  half-drunken  fakirs ! 
What  do  you  think  I  am?  " 

11  I'm  not  your  wife  yet,"  she  retorted,  angry  youth 
rising  to  face  angry  youth,  and  tender  love  quite  help- 
less between  them!  "I've  written  and  promised  —  I 
just  posted  the  letter." 

"  You  didn't  even  ask  me!  "  he  accused. 

"Why  should  I  ask  you?" 

"  Because  I  love  you !  I'd  ask  you  about  anything  I 
was  going  to  do,  you  know  that.  How  much  did  he  offer 
you?  I'll  double  it,  if  you  say  no." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  If  you  gave  me  five  hundred 
dollars,  I'd  not  be  bribed.  It  isn't  the  money.  It's  the 
joy  of  singing  to  people  —  but  you  can't  understand." 

"  You  belong  to  me  and  you  shall  not  do  it!  "  The 
Birge  temper  was  gaining  control  of  the  good-natured, 
generous  boy.  "  Do  you  hear  me?  " 

"  I  belong  to  whom  I  choose !  Don't  look  at  me  like 
that!  Do  you  think  I'll  marry  a  man  so  narrow-minded 
that  he  refuses  me  the  chance  to  sing  in  respectable  fash- 
ion? Better  women  than  I  have  done  so."  The  Pre- 

84 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

core  temper  was  matching  the  Birge  temper  without  hesi- 
tation. 

"  I  won't  give  my  consent,"  Dan  said  in  a  dangerous 
tone.  "  If  you  sing  at  that  fair,  by  God  —  I  —  I  won't 
marry  you !  "  Then  his  face  went  white  as  soon  as  he 
had  spoken.  "  Oh,  no,  of  course  I,"  he  began  piteously, 
"  Thurley  —  listen  —  don't  do  it,  will  you — " 

Thurley's  eyes  were  closed  for  a  moment.  She  saw  in 
tempting  panorama  the  old  coupe  with  Miss  Clergy  say- 
ing good-by  and  adding,  "  I  am  rich  and  lonesome 
and  — " 

She  opened  them  to  look  with  impersonal  scorn  at 
Dan  Birge.  In  that  brief  interlude  he  became  a  pre- 
suming, ill-tempered,  small-town  man  who  would  drive 
her  into  becoming  an  equally  ill-tempered,  small-town 
woman  —  she  would  have  none  of  it! 

'  Very  well,"  she  answered,  drawing  off  the  seal  ring 
which  she  was  wearing  until  the  solitaire  was  ready, 
"  you've  said  it  —  not  I.  Good-by  and  I  hope  you'll  be 
happy." 

She  turned  and  walked  in  the  opposite  direction.  At 
first  Dan  started  to  follow;  then  he  threw  back  his  head 
with  the  same  insolent  toss  as  Thurley's,  and,  squaring 
off  his  shoulders,  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  hotel. 
Of  course  their  engagement  was  not  broken;  that  was 
too  absurd  even  to  fancy.  But  Thurley  must  know,  first 
as  well  as  last,  that  when  she  married  Dan  his  wishes 
were  to  count.  Lovely,  wilful  Thurley-girl,  what  a  won- 
derful time  of  it  they  would  have  making  up  !  Of  course 
nothing  would  really  interfere  with  the  September  wed- 
ding—  impish  and  unwelcome  thought.  It  was  just  fhat 
Thurley  must  see  he  was  in  the  right,  and,  when  she 
sang,  it  would  be  in  her  husband's  house  —  the  twenty- 
thousand-dollar  house  with  the  statue  of  a  deer  in  the 

85 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

front  and  a  pergola  and  steam  heat !  He  would  go  up  to 
see  Thurley  that  same  night  and  they  would  begin  all  new 
again  and  he  would  write  Westcott  on  a  typewriter  and 
on  the  store  official  paper  and  explain  that  Miss  Precore 
could  not  keep  her  engagement.  His  Thurley  singing 
at  a  county  fair  —  never ! 


86 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Then  the  second  thrilling  event  happened!  Like  all 
thrilling  events  it  happened  with  magical  speed.  First,  it 
was  carefully  reported  by  Ali  Baba  and  Hopeful  that 
Thurley  Precore  had  unceremoniously  arrived  at  The  Fin- 
cherie  and  demanded  to  see  and  speak  with  Miss  Clergy. 
If  some  one  had  meekly  sent  in  a  note,  it  would  have 
been  called  presumption  itself.  But  to  demand  to  speak 
with  Miss  Clergy  and  to  gain  one's  point  as  well  was 
nothing  short  of  marvellous! 

For  Thurley  had  been  admitted  and  had  rushed  up 
the  winding  stairs  like  the  "  younger  generation  who 
come  knocking  at  the  door."  She  had  entered  the  mys- 
terious front  room  and  remained  there,  while  Hopeful 
and  Ali  Baba  remained  below  in  a  state  of  fearful  curios- 
ity. 

Whatever  the  conversation  was  it  was  of  interest  to 
Miss  Clergy.  An  hour  later  Miss  Clergy  saw  her  guest 
to  the  door  and  then  called  Hopeful  and  said  that  she 
was  taking  Thurley  Precore  to  New  York  by  the  morn- 
ing train.  She  wished  to  have  a  trunk  —  this  with  a 
slight  quaver  in  her  voice  —  packed  with  the  best  of 
what  she  had;  she  would  buy  a  new  wardrobe  as  soon 
as  she  reached  the  city.  She  wished  no  questions  asked 
nor  did  she  wish  Hopeful  to  answer  any  questions  until 
they  had  boarded  the  train.  Hopeful  was  to  have  her 
cousin  Betsey  Pilrig  come  to  live  at  the  Fincherie,  be- 
cause Thurley  Precore  wished  to  have  her  provided  for 

8? 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

—  her  voice  softened  at  Thurley's  name  —  and  they  were 
liable  to  be  away  for  a  long  time. 

Gasping,  twisting  her  apron,  dizzy  with  trying  to  com- 
prehend this  new  order  of  things,  Hopeful  had  insisted, 
"  But  what  am  I  to  say  after  —  after  you  have  boarded 
the  train?" 

"  Say  Miss  Clergy  has  taken  Thurley  Precore  to  New 
York  to  have  her  study  for  grand  opera,"  Miss  Clergy 
said,  after  a  moment's  deliberation.  "  And  the  engage- 
ment with  Dan  Birge  is  broken  for  all  time." 

Meanwhile,  at  Betsey  Pilrig's  house,  Thurley  was 
kneeling  before  the  gentle  old  lady  and  telling  in  her 
rapt,  dramatic  fashion, 

"  I'm  going,  Granny.  I  found  out  all  in  a  moment 
that  I  didn't  love  Dan  as  I  should.  Of  course  it  hurts 
a  little,  but  they  say  it  is  good  to  have  a  love  affair 
terminating  badly,  if  you're  to  sing  in  opera.  Anyway, 
I'm  going.  You  are  to  stay  at  the  Fincherie  and  be 
taken  care  of  forever  and  ever,  and,  as  soon  as  I'm 
famous,  I'll  pay  Miss  Clergy  back  for  all  her  kindness 
and  we'll  have  a  lovely,  white  house,  you  and  I,  where 
I'll  come  for  vacations.  It's  so  different  from  singing 
in  church,  isn't  it?  "  She  laughed  the  innocent  laugh  of 
pure  joy.  "  Oh,  I'm  not  afraid  I'll  not  make  good. 
Something  tells  me  I  shall  —  the  same  as  the  day  I  told 
Philena  that  cripples  could  be  conquerors  —  remember? 
And,  Granny,  it  is  really  better  for  Dan,  and,  if  he  comes 
here  to-night  to  see  me,  say  I've  gone  to  bed  and  I'm  too 
tired  to  be  called  .  .  .  no,  no,  I'm  sure  of  myself! 
Granny  dear,  don't  let  the  old  box-car  fall  to  pieces,  I 
want  it  as  a  souvenir.  When  I  build  my  beautiful  house, 
it  shall  stay  close  beside  it.  It  was  my  home,  you 
know  1  "  The  scarlet  lips  quivered  for  an  instant. 

"  But  are  you  happy,  Thurley,  giving  up  a  good  man's 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

love,  going  with  that  woman  to  New  York?  "  The  gen- 
tle, narrow  mind  could  not  comprehend  this  whirlwind 
of  events,  strange  and  astonishing. 

"I'm  happier  than  I've  been  in  years!  There  must 
be  gypsy  in  me.  I'm  happy  at  the  thought  of  travelling 
again !  The  old  days,  even  the  hungry,  cold  ones  in 
the  box-car  wagon,  were  happier  than  the  days  of  being 
fed  and  warmed  but  made  to  sit  in  school  and  sew  my 
stint  afternoons.  Don't  you  see,  Granny  dear,  I'm  dif- 
ferent; and  when  a  person  finds  that  out  for  sure  and 
some  wonderful  thing  happens  to  them  like  Miss  Clergy's 
hearing  me  sing  that  it's  the  right  thing  to  go  on  and 
follow  the  trail?  Tell  Dan  —  no,  I'll  write  him,  bless 
his  old  heart,  he  didn't  know  I  halfway  wanted  to  re- 
fuse to  marry  him,"  Thurley  sobered  as  if  momentarily 
contrite. 

Betsey  Pilrig  looked  at  her  with  lack  of  comprehen- 
sion. "Maybe  you're  right  —  maybe  you're  wrong. 
I've  no  power  to  keep  you.  What  did  she  say  when  she 
offered  to  take  you  away?" 

"  So  many  things !  I  could  travel  abroad,  and,  if 
I  worked  very  hard  and  the  right  person  trained  me, 
she  thought  I  would  be  famous  and  she  is  to  be  my  god- 
mother as  it  were.  The  only  condition  was  not  to  marry 
for  twenty  years  —  that  was  easy  to  promise.  For  I'll 
never  love  any  one  but  Dan,  and  all  of  me  didn't  love 
him.  So  I  gave  my  pledge.  She  would  not  have  taken 
me  unless  I  did.  She's  bitter,  Granny,  because  of  her 
own  affair.  She  likes  to  think  of  cheating  a  man  of  me 
—  poor  dear!  Why,  I  didn't  mind  the  promising." 

"  I  don't  like  the  condition,"  Betsey  said,  gravely. 
"  You're  young  and  you  don't  know  all  that  is  in  your 
heart  any  more  than  the  world  knows  of  your  voice. 
That  wasn't  fair  of  her!  " 

89 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

But  Thurley  in  a  state  of  ecstasy  refused  to  listen. 
She  fell  to  packing,  and,  when  Dan  came  an  hour  later, 
Betsey  was  forced  to  send  him  away  with  the  unsatis- 
factory message  that  Thurley  was  busy  —  she  would  see 
him  later. 

After  which  Betsey  Pilrig  watched  the  light  of  his 
roadster  twinkle  into  nothingness.  Moonlight  called  her 
attention  to  the  box-car  wagon.  She  visualized  the 
long-legged,  ragged  child  Thurley  who  had  sung  for 
her  supper  —  and  got  it  —  at  the  Hotel  Button,  and 
the  worthless  parents.  Then  she  saw  Philena  limp- 
ing eagerly  about  in  Thurley's  train  as  they  played  mis- 
sionaries; she  saw  Thurley  in  her  white  dress  on  Chil- 
dren's Day  when  she  was  made  to  speak  the  part  of  Satur- 
day and  declared  joyously  that  she  did  not  care,  she 
really  wanted  to  work  for  her  living.  She  saw  a  taller, 
lovelier  Thurley  singing  at  Philena's  funeral.  Then  she 
saw  Dan  and  Thurley  in  the  first  flush  of  courtship,  with 
Thurley  all  blushes  and  happy  songs  and  four  or  five 
engagements  a  day,  while  Dan's  business  ran  itself  .  .  . 
well,  that  was  at  an  end.  In  her  simple  fashion  Betsey 
realized  the  girl  Thurley  would  never  return  nor  would 
Dan  Birge  remain  a  light-hearted,  whistling  boy.  As 
for  Abby  Clergy,  some  folks  might  call  it  generous  on 
her  part  to  take  Thurley  to  the  city,  but  Betsey  called  it 
using  youth  as  a  crutch  and  a  revenge  and  she  wondered 
what  Miss  Abby's  parents  would  have  said  if  they  had 
known. 

"  It's  late,  Granny  love!  Tell  me  —  did  he  mind?  " 
Turning,  she  found  Thurley  waiting  to  say  good  night 
to  her. 

She  came  and  peeked  over  Betsey's  shoulder  at  the 
old  wagon.  u  Good-by,  funny  home,"  she  kissed  her 
finger  tips  to  it.  "  I  sha'n't  forget  you  —  not  even  if 

90 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

I  drive  into  the  Corners  the  next  time  in  a  limousine  with 
a  footman." 

After  Miss  Clergy  and  Thurley  had  left  the  Corners, 
Hopeful  and  Ali  Baba  took  the  day  off  to  get  out  an  ex- 
tra of  their  own  as  to  what  had  happened. 

"...  dressed  in  a  black  silk  forty-year  old  she  was 
and  a  hat  to  match  and  all  her  rings  on  her  fingers  and 
the  same  hobnail  boots,"  Ali  Baba  informed  Corners 
loungers,  "  but  as  chirp  as  if  she'd  never  gone  to  ruin  for 
over  thirty  years  about  an  Eyetalian  barber  —  poor  Miss 
Abby!  And  I  bet  my  hat,  she'll  have  new  clothes  and 
be  as  up  to  snuff  as  they  make  'em  when  she  gets  to  New 
York.  .  .  .  Thurley?  Oh,  her  own  self  with  a  pink 
dress  and  a  white  shade  hat  and  Miss  Abby  sayin'  to  her, 
'  We'll  only  be  shabby  a  little  while  longer.  It  isn't 
goin'  to  take  us  long  to  learn  new  ways.'  Thurley's 
eyes  was  as  blue  as  the  sea  and  she  kept  starin'  out  be- 
yond everybody  and  goodness  only  knows  what  she  was 
thinkin'  .  .  .  anyhow,  they're  gone!  We've  orders  to 
close  the  house  and  blest  if  she  didn't  have  our  cousin  Bet- 
sey Pilrig  come  to  live  with  us  —  as  good  a  thing  as  Miss 
Abby  has  done  in  over  thirty  years  —  for  it  will  take  the 
heart  from  Betsey  to  lose  Thurley,  too !  When  Dan 
Birge  knows  that  Abby  Clergy  has  stole  his  girl  and  she 
isn't  goin'  to  marry  him  no  more'n  a  terrier'll  leave  a 
badger  hole,  I  guess  for  the  first  time  in  history  a  Birge 
will  be  so  sore  he'll  have  to  ride  in  a  rubber-tired  cab!  " 
Conscious  of  being  the  courier  of  a  thrilling  event,  Ali 
Baba  nonchalantly  borrowed  tobacco  and  strolled  on  to 
spread  the  glad  tidings. 

Even  a  mystery  or  a  haunted  lady  becomes  a  bore 
after  a  certain  time.  It  is  like  a  jolly  week-end  guest 
who,  without  invitation,  spends  the  entire  season  in  one's 

91 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

only  and  best  pink  room.  So  had  Miss  Clergy  become 
a  nonentity  to  the  town  — "  a  pity,"  the  older  people 
said,  "  a  pill  "  retorted  the  younger. 

Which  explained  somewhat  the  shock  it  gave  the  town 
when  news  of  her  flight  to  New  York  with  Thurley  was 
announced.  "  How  could  that  poor  soul  ever  get  up 
and  get?"  the  town  asked  itself.  The  truth  of  the 
rapidity  was  that  because  she  had  been  dormant  for  so 
many  years  —  and  had  endless  money  —  any  activity 
would  either  be  of  microscopic  importance  or  stupendous 
haste;  there  could  be  no  middle,  sane  course  of  action. 
With  Thurley  Precore  as  the  incentive,  the  former  course 
was  out  of  the  question.  It  was  like  the  sleeping  princess 
upon  rousing  —  she  lost  no  time  in  finding  out  the  state 
of  mind  towards  him  who  kissed  and  wakened  her.  So 
Miss  Clergy  could  not  leave  town  fast  enough  to  please 
herself.  She  trembled  lest  Dan  Birge,  through  customary 
masculine  knavery,  trick  Thurley  into  marriage  and  cheat 
her  newly-throbbing  heart  of  its  long-awaited  revenge. 

Three  weeks  later,  when  the  town  was  still  agog,  say- 
ing they  guessed  even  "  the  crabs  were  laughing  with 
their  claws  "  at  the  thought  of  a  Birge  being  handed  the 
mitten,  two  pillars  of  the  church  vowed  that  Dan  Birge 
had  proposed  to  Lorraine  McDowell  and  been  accepted; 
that  he  had  spoken  to  her  father  about  the  wedding.  So 
he  could  not  have  cared  so  much  or  else  he  was  marry- 
ing Lorraine  out  of  spite.  Lorraine  would  be,  at  any 
event,  mistress  of  the  twenty-thousand-dollar  house  and 
would  wear  both  the  solitaire  and  the  wedding  band  Dan 
had  planned  to  give  Thurley  Precore. 

The  news  rivalled  the  amazement  over  Miss  Clergy's 
recovery.  The  town  began  to  "  lot  "  on  whether  or  not 
Thurley,  with  all  her  notions  of  being  a  fine  singer,  would 
not  be  sorry  some  day. 

92 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  He  should  have  married  Thurley  to  meet  his  equal," 
Ali  Baba  declared.  "  'Raine  has  as  much  chance  with 
him  as  a  paper-shell  almond  against  a  hickory  nut!  Yes, 
we  got  a  letter  from  Thurley  —  she  said  they  was  well 
—  that  was  about  all !  " 

But  the  town  never  knew  quite  all  about  Dan's  sudden 
engagement  to  Lorraine  nor  Lorraine's  acceptance  of 
Thurley's  suitor.  They  never  knew  that  Dan,  white- 
faced  and  with  a  strange,  red  light  in  his  eyes,  had 
come  to  Lorraine  to  plead  with  her  that  she  marry 
him. 

To  Dan's  despairing  anger  of  youth,  Lorraine  yielded 
because  of  her  own  despairing  love.  "  I  know  you  love 
Thurley,"  she  said,  when  he  scarcely  embraced  her. 
"  You  want  to  show  her  some  one  loves  you  enough  to 
marry  you  .  .  .  and  you  knew  I  always  cared.  Dan, 
will  you  learn  to  care  afterwards?  I'll  be  the  best  wife  I 
can !  I'll  do  everything  you  want  me  to  do !  "  She  won- 
dered why  he  winced  at  the  words. 

He  was  thinking  of  Thurley's  wild  rose,  defiant,  ador- 
able self.  It  had  all  happened  so  quickly  that  he  won- 
dered if  it  were  not  some  hideous,  unfair  nightmare  from 
which  he  would  soon  waken  —  and  meet  Thurley! 

But  as  he  looked  at  her  gentle  face  he  knew  it  was 
reality;  that  for  over  three  weeks  Thurley  had  been 
away  from  the  Corners,  Abigail  Clergy's  fortune  at  her 
disposal  to  prove  that  she  could  sing  and  the  whole  world 
would  listen. 

Only  that  hastily  scribbled  note  was  left  him  —  he 
wondered  some  days  when  he  was  trying  to  attend  to 
business  and  not  act  conscious  of  the  glances  of  his  clerks 
and  customers,  whether  he  might  not  burst  out  saying 
the  words, 

93 


THE  GRAZ  ANGELS 

Dan  — 

Miss  Clergy  has  promised  to  take  me  to  New  York  and  let  me 
study.  I  was  telling  you  the  truth  about  it.  I  know  it  is  for  the 
best,  we  could  never  make  each  other  happy  —  forgive  and  forget, 

THURLEY. 

;' Well  —  I  always  liked  you,  'Raine,"  he  forced  him- 
self into  saying.  "  And  it's  mighty  sensible  —  I  guess 
your  father  will  say  yes." 

"He  may  think  a  marriage  for  —  spite,"  she  added 
half  inaudibly,  "  isn't  right,  but  I'll  marry  you  anyway, 
Dan,"  this  to  his  surprise. 

"  It  hurts  to  love  so  hard,  doesn't  it?  "  he  asked  im- 
personally. "  I  thought  she  was  only  joking  about  the 
fair  —  but  I  guess  if  she  knows  her  own  mind,  I  can 
know  mine !  "  Determination  to  turn  the  tables  on 
Thurley  and  the  town  surged  to  the  front.  "  It's  no- 
body's business  whether  I  marry  you  to-morrow  —  I'm 
going  right  on  with  the  plans  for  the  house  and  the  ring 
—  and  all  of  it!  I  guess  we  can  learn  to  be  happy  in 
our  own  way,"  he  touched  her  hair  gently.  "  You're 
an  awful  good  little  girl  to  care  enough  not  to  be  jeal- 
ous of  Thurley.  I  don't  think  you'll  ever  be  sorry  we 
married  .  .  .  sometimes  it  takes  a  funny  sort  of  thing  — 
like  my  being  engaged  to  Thurley,  you  know,"  he  stum- 
bled over  the  situation  in  poorly  chosen  words,  "  and 
her  wanting  a  career  and  leaving  me,  to  make  other  peo- 
ple happy!  "  He  tried  to  laugh,  lovable,  broken-hearted 
boy,  and  Lorraine  tried  to  laugh,  too,  lovable  girl  whose 
broken  heart  was  beginning  to  mend.  "  And  here  I  am 
marrying  the  same  little  girl  I  played  with  —  so  here's 
our  pledge  to  be  happy  —  no  matter  what." 

To  Lorraine's  father,  who  questioned  the  sudden 

94 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

courtship,  he  said  with  Birge  aggression,  "  Lorraine  loves 
me  and  she'll  never  marry  any  other  fellow.  I  guess  you 
know  all  there  is  to  my  being  engaged  to  Thurley,  sir. 
I'm  sorry  it  ever  got  into  the  paper,  but  that's  done  and 
there  is  no  taking  it  back.  I  loved  Thurley,  but  I'd 
be  a  fool  to  mope  my  life  away  like  Miss  Clergy  did  be- 
cause a  girl  wanted  to  sing  instead  of  be  my  wife.  After 
all,  it's  not  a  matter  of  life  and  death."  He  wondered 
if  the  Reverend  McDowell  knew  how  loud  his  heart  was 
thumping,  great  irregular  thumps,  each  one  trying  to  say 
in  its  dumb  fashion,  "  Oh,  Thurley- dear!  "  But  he  fin- 
ished bravely,  "  I'm  making  plans  to  build  and  I  guess 
you  know  I'll  take  good  care  of  'Raine.  If  you've  any 
other  objection  to  me,  I'd  like  to  hear  it." 

"  Nothing  but  the  haste,  my  lad,"  the  older  man  said 
slowly.  "  My  child  would  never  marry  another  man  — 
but  yourself  —  this  '  heart  on  the  rebound  ' — " 

"  I  want  'Raine!  "  Dan  cried,  striking  the  chair  arm 
with  the  flat  of  his  palm.  "  And  I'm  going  to  marry  her. 
I'll  wait  until  the  house  is  built,  if  you  think  it  best,  but 
she's  promised  to  marry  me  and  she  won't  change." 

"Then  why  bother  me  at  all?"  Lorraine's  father 
could  not  refrain  from  saying.  "  It  was  never  a  Birge 
habit,  as  I  recall  it." 

After  Dan  left  the  parsonage  study  to  tell  Lorraine 
her  father  approved,  but  they  would  wait  until  Fairview 
was  ready  for  occupancy,  and  diligently  measured  her 
ring  finger,  finding  it  two  sizes  smaller  than  Thurley's, 
he  left  her,  dazed  with  joy  yet  trying  to  still  the  some- 
thing which  whispered, 

"  He  loves  Thurley;  you  must  always  be  content  with 
crumbs." 

Lorraine  began  counting  over  the  things  in  the  long- 

95 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

closed  hope  chest  and  planning  to  crowd  it  to  overflow- 
ing. What  mattered  it,  if  they  were  not  married  for  a 
year  or  two?  Was  she  not  "  bespoken  "  to  Dan  Birge? 
And  Lorraine  was  quite  positive  she  would  not  change 
her  mind. 

Upon  leaving  Lorraine  that  day,  Dan  went  to  the  box- 
car wagon  to  sit  for  a  long  time  on  its  steps,  thinking  the 
bitter,  rebellious  things  of  youth,  that  dangerous  noon- 
time, trying  to  forget  the  glorious  moment  when  he  had 
measured  Thurley's  ring  finger  with  a  blade  of  grass 
she  had  plucked  near  Philena's  grave,  how  every  bit  of 
him  thrilled  with  a  new,  savage  joy  and  new,  savage 
longings  .  .  .  well,  it  was  to  be  Lorraine !  He  flipped 
the  bit  of  ribbon  she  had  used  as  a  ring  guide  on  the  end 
of  his  thumb  in  disdain.  After  all,  it  must  hurt  Thurley 
a  very  little  when  she  should  hear  the  news,  and,  like 
most  of  the  world,  when  they  cannot  have  their  way  un- 
hampered, to  hurt  the  object  of  past  adoration  is  quite 
the  natural  procedure ! 

When  Birge's  Corners  exhibited  customary  signs  of 
fall,  with  winter  clothes  hung  out  to  be  beaten,  smells  of 
catsup  and  corn  relish,  the  broken  panes  in  the  opera  house 
windows  repaired  and  the  poster  of  a  gaudy  burlesque 
queen  pasted  on  the  billboard,  a  full  line  of  mufflers  and 
overcoats  crowding  the  emporium  show  cases,  bonfires  of 
leaves  and  misty  haze  veiling  the  early  mornings,  Thur- 
ley Precore  and  Abby  Clergy,  two  islands  of  old-fash- 
ionedness,  entirely  surrounded  by  seas  of  new  fashion, 
safely  ensconced  in  a  comfortable  hotel  suite,  were  chat- 
ting like  schoolgirls  over  the  momentous  event  of  the 
morrow. 

For  Thurley  was  to  meet  the  Napoleon  of  grand  opera, 
the  master  critic  and  coach,  who  could  make  or  mar 
the  most  talented  person  in  creation  —  Bliss  Hobart,  a 

96 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

mysterious,  powerful,  never-erring  judge  of  one's  abili- 
ties, both  latent  and  developed. 

Miss  Clergy's  solicitors  and  Miss  Clergy's  checkbook 
skilfully  deciphered  false  lures  of  singing  teachers  and 
alleged  powerful  agents,  and  had,  at  the  same  time,  dis- 
covered the  nucleus  of  the  New  York  art  world.  So 
Thurley  was  to  make  her  bow,  as  it  were,  to  the  very 
public  itself  at  noon  to-morrow. 


97 


CHAPTER  IX 

Bliss  Hobart  was  impossible  to  describe,  Thurley  con- 
cluded. As  she  first  spied  him  behind  his  carved  teak- 
wood  desk,  one  of  a  hundred  luxuries  in  his  elaborate 
studio,  he  appeared  a  small,  insignificant  person  with 
an  overlarge  head  betraying  the  aristocracy  of  an 
old  race  and  piercing  gray  eyes.  His  hair,  a  salt  and 
pepper  affair  with  a  wild  front-lock  waving  as  signal 
for  a  controversy,  showed  the  result  of  a  fever,  not  age, 
she  afterwards  learned,  and  his  long,  almost  grotesque 
nose  and  flexible  mouth  with  its  deeply-dimpled  chin  in- 
spired her  with  a  desire  to  laugh.  But  as  he  came  across 
the  room  to  greet  Miss  Clergy  and  give  Thurley  a 
cheerful  nod,  she  saw  that  he  was  as  tall  as  her  own 
self  and  his  shoulders  were  broad  and  powerful,  while 
his  wonderfully  shaped  hands  championed  his  abili- 
ties. He  was  dressed  more  foppishly  than  she  had  ever 
seen  a  man  dress  —  a  blue  serge  with  a  corded  white 
waistcoat,  an  exquisite  sapphire  pin  in  the  cream  satin 
scarf  and  a  watch  chain  as  slender  as  a  woman's.  As 
he  whisked  out  his  handkerchief  characteristically,  she 
discovered  it  to  be  of  more  cobwebby  texture  than  her 
own. 

Facing  him,  her  blue  eyes  staring  in  naive  wonderment, 
Thurley  asked  herself  why  she  had  experienced  the  illu- 
sion of  this  man's  being  a  clever  dwarf  with  cruel,  calcu- 
lating eyes  !  Whatever  Bliss  Hobart  thought  of  Thurley 
would  have  been  impossible  to  state.  He  seemed  more 
interested  in  Miss  Clergy  whose  thin  face  was  flushed 

98 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

with  excitement  and  whose  small  self  wore  a  sheathlike 
dress  of  black  silk,  which  suited  her  well. 

For  the  moment  Bliss  Hobart  seemed  a  respectful 
footman  solicitous  about  his  mistress'  comfort,  as  he 
"  fussed  "  over  selecting  a  chair  for  Miss  Clergy  and 
asked  as  to  draughts.  Thurley  was  left  in  confusion  in 
the  middle  of  the  great  room,  looking  out  at  Central 
Park. 

She  tried  to  steady  her  thoughts  by  taking  inventory  of 
the  room's  contents,  but  it  added  to  her  bewilderment. 
There  was  something  of  every  period  in  furnishings  — 
shrug-shouldered  French,  the  burly  Jacobean,  the  Victor- 
ian redolent  of  posies,  curls  and  lace  mitts,  subtle  Oriental 
and  convenient  Mission  —  there  was  rare  glass  which  had 
successfully  imprisoned  Italian  sunshine,  Holland  delft- 
ware,  cloisonne,  snowy  linen  panels  from  China  encrusted 
with  gold  dragons,  lamps  with  the  magic  of  India  and 
great  jars  of  Navajo  pottery.  Behind  the  desk  was  a 
door  halfway  ajar  —  Thurley  caught  her  breath  as  she 
looked  at  it.  This  must  be  the  sacred  spot  where  one 
was  "  tried  out."  The  agent  finally  arranging  the  inter- 
view had  told  them  that  when  Bliss  Hobart  was  convinced 
he  had  a  find,  he  went  into  the  little  anteroom  and  played 
accompaniments  or  scales  or  whatever  he  wished,  while  he 
tested  voices.  But  before  he  heard  one  sing,  he  had  a 
way  of  deciding  whether  or  not  it  was  worth  while  to  pass 
through  the  anteroom  door. 

Thurley  wondered  if  she  could  make  any  sound  at 
all  —  her  voice  seemed  frozen.  Supposing  she  did  not 
meet  Miss  Clergy's  expectations?  Supposing  she  were 
forced  to  return  to  Birge's  Corners  or  to  stay  in 
New  York  as  a  ribbon  clerk,  sharing  another  ribbon 
clerk's  hall  bedroom?  She  began  looking  at  the  col- 
lection of  autographed  photographs  which  lined  the 

99 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

walls,  the  marble  statues,  the  has  reliefs,  some  paint- 
ings of  an  interesting,  delicate  sort  in  pastels  and 
shadowy  outlines  which  hung  close  beside  the  teakwood 
desk.  Then  the  portrait  of  a  striking,  but  not  beauti- 
ful, woman  claimed  Thurley's  attention.  The  woman 
had  a  clever,  quick  face  with  flashing  black  eyes,  almost  as 
black  as  Dan's,  and  blueblack  hair,  quite  like  Dan's, 
combed  into  a  huge  knot  at  the  nape  of  her  thin,  yet 
attractive,  neck.  She  wore  a  Grecian  frock  —  two  layers 
of  white  voile  and  a  layer  of  black  with  a  jet  cord  for  a 
girdle.  It  was  a  merciless  frock,  Thurley  decided,  for  it 
showed  the  woman's  bony,  frail  figure  and  unlovely,  long 
arms  with  wonderfully  live  hands  and  surprisingly  stubby 
fingers.  On  the  third  finger  of  each  hand  was  an  an- 
tique ring,  the  glow  of  the  jewels  shining  on  the  white 
lap  of  her  frock.  Something  about  the  picture  fascinated 
Thurley.  She  was  wondering  if  this  woman  were  not 
Bliss  Hobart's  wife;  if  she  did  not  find  it  a  stupendous 
task  to  be  as  clever  and  as  keen  as  her  husband.  Yet 
those  well-modeled  scarlet  lips  and  the  rather  masculine 
chin  told  Thurley  that  the  woman  was  equal  to  almost 
any  task.  By  contrast,  glancing  in  a  side  mirror,  Thurley 
felt  herself  overdone  and  impossible.  She  longed  to 
exit  silently  and  drop  down  the  nearest  elevator  shaft  in 
peaceful  oblivion. 

Before  she  had  reached  the  studio  she  had  felt  sure  of 
herself,  scornful  of  criticism.  Miss  Clergy  told  her  she 
looked  a  picture  in  her  frock  of  white  crepe,  embroidered 
with  dull  red,  and  a  smart  crimson  sailor  to  match.  But 
as  she  pulled  off  her  gloves  in  nervousness  she  felt  unfit, 
impossible,  one  mammoth  gaucherie  —  her  wilful  brown 
hair  would  creep  out  in  untidy  strands  and  her  face  grow 
flushed  in  spite  of  the  conventional  coating  of  powder. 
She  wondered  what  Dan  Birge  would  say  if  he  came  into 

100 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  studio  of  the  "  wisest  and  most  cynical  man  in  New 
York's  art  world  "  and  saw  her! 

"  Ah,"  Hobart  was  saying,  "  we  can  go  inside  now  — " 

Thurley  started.  Miss  Clergy  was  sitting  in  blissful 
rapture  in  an  easy  chair  by  the  window,  her  gray  head 
nodding  at  Thurley  in  delight. 

Thurley  wondered  how  long  she  had  been  standing 
spellbound.  She  had  thought  and  felt  so  many  strange 
things  and  emotions  that  the  time  she  was  sure  must  be 
great. 

"  I  won't  keep  you  out  here,"  Hobart  was  saying,  just 
the  suggestion  of  a  blur  in  his  pleasant  voice.  "  Some 
one  mi^ht  stray  in,  and  I've  an  appointment  for  lunch. 
Miss  Clergy,  please  help  yourself  to  something  to  read." 

"  I  sha'n't  be  lonesome,"  Miss  Clergy  answered. 
They  were  a  strange  pair,  this  wild-rose  girl  and  the  little 
ghost-lady  who  had  quickened  just  in  time  to  make  the 
wild  rose  become  hothouse  variety. 

"  What  were  you  looking  at  so  intently?  "  Hobart 
paused  before  they  went  ahead. 

"  That  picture  of  your  wife,"  Thurley  answered  with- 
out delay. 

He  laughed.  "  Dear  me,  that  is  a  very  famous  person 
who  is  an  intimate  friend  of  mine  and  a  friend  of  my 
other  intimate  friends.  Her  name  is  Ernestine  Christian 
and  she  is  a  pianist.  Paderewski  thinks  no  one  plays 
Beethoven  as  well  as  Ernestine  —  you  may  meet  her  some 
day.  But  remember  that  in  New  York  the  portraits  of 
ladies  hanging  nearest  gentlemen's  desks  are  never  likely 
to  be  their  wives.  Tell  me,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
painting?  " 

"  That  it  was  by  the  same  artist  who  did  those." 
Thurley  pointed  childishly. 

"  Right  —  Collin  Hedley  —  you've  heard  of  him?  " 

101 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

She  shook  her  head.  "  We  live  at  Birge's  Corners," 
she  said  demurely. 

'  Then  you  will  hear  of  him,  particularly  if  you  meet 
Miss  Christian.  Collin  painted  her  portrait  as  a  re- 
venge, because  she  insisted  that  men  with  Van  Dyke 
beards  always  have  a  queer  sense  of  humor.  I  take  it 
you  understand  who  boasts  of  a  Van  Dyke  beard.  Then 
they  gave  me  the  picture  because  I  am  so  fond  of  them 
both."  He  was  leading  the  way  across  the  room. 

As  she  stepped  inside  the  anteroom,  Hobart  closed  the 
door.  Looking  about  she  saw  tawny,  rough  plaster 
walls,  highly  polished  floors,  a  white  marble  mantel  seem- 
ingly unconscious  of  the  fire  of  birch  logs  ready  to  be 
kindled.  Gold-colored  curtains  shut  out  daylight;  peas- 
ant chairs  with  rush  seats  and  a  great,  dark-wooded 
settle  piled  with  cushions  gave  the  proper  background  for 
the  piano  which  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

"  Sit  down,"  Hobart  said  pleasantly.  u  I  was  so  inter- 
ested in  your  fairy  godmother  that  I  have  not  had  a  good 
look  at  you.  There  —  so  —  I  can  see  your  eyes.  How 
old  are  you?  "  His  voice  changed  to  that  of  an  imper- 
sonal and  rather  impatient  stranger's. 

"  A  little  past  twenty.  Does  it  matter  how  old  a  per- 
son is?  " 

"Find  that  out  for  yourself!  Sometimes  —  some- 
times not.  Now  tell  me,  where  were  you  born  and  edu- 
cated and  are  you  engaged  to  half  a  dozen  lads  in  Birge's 
Backyard  or  wherever  it  is?  And  why  do  you  want  to  be 
an  opera  singer,  and  what  has  led  you  to  fancy  you  could 
be?  Is  it  because  Miss  Clergy  has  advanced  you  money? 
Before  you  answer,  let  me  add  that  money  does  not  keep 
you  in  grand  opera  or  any  other  art  work.  I'm  not  say- 
ing that  occasionally  it  does  not  get  you  in,  although  not 
as  often  as  envious  laymen  like  to  imagine.  But  it  can- 

102 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

not  keep  you  on  the  stage  or  in  the  hearts  of  the  people 
unless  you  merit  the  so  doing.  You  must  use  your  brain, 
as  well  as  sing.  You  may  have  the  voice  of  angels  and 
yet  fail  on  the  operatic  or  dramatic  stage.  You  may 
have  the  angelic  voice  and  heavenly  beauty  and  celestial 
gowns  —  and  still  be  registered  as  zero,  unless  you  use 
your  brain.  You  must  employ  intellect,  wit,  sincerity, 
industry,  the  same  as  if  you  were  building  a  house  or 
cooking  a  meal  or  raising  a  family.  A  mediocre  singer 
with  brains  can  always  surpass  naturally  endowed,  but 
mentally  sluggish,  singers.  Remember  that!"  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  his  gray  eyes  narrowed  some- 
what; the  dimples  in  his  chin  vanished  and  with  them  the 
good-natured,  kindly  expression. 

As  if  she  were  pleading  with  a  judge,  Thurley,  who  all 
in  an  instant  swept  from  her  savage  little  self  everything 
she  had  fancied  she  believed,  found  herself  beginning  with 
admirable  logic, 

"  I  was  born  in  Thurley,  Idaho,  so  they  named  me 
Thurley.  Just  think  —  if  I  hadn't  been  born  until  the 
next  day,  it  would  have  been  Hoskins,  Idaho !  So  far 
luck  was  with  me !  " 

Half  an  hour  later  she  ended  with,  "  I  shall  never  go 
back  to  the  Corners,  and  I  shall  pay  Miss  Clergy  for  all 
she  is  doing,  no  matter  if  she  has  no  need  of  the  money. 
And  I  shall  never  marry  any  one !  You  see  that  was  my 
one  promise  to  Miss  Clergy.  At  least  not  for  twenty 
years,  she  said,  because  by  that  time  she  would  be  dead 
and  could  haunt  me  if  I  went  to  behaving  foolishly." 

Hobart  smiled  at  her  as  genially  as  he  had  smiled  at 
Miss  Clergy,  remarking,  "  Ah,  the  de  luxe  Topsy,  I  take 
it !  I  much  prefer  a  Topsy  prospect  to  a  Little  Eva  pros- 
pect with  a  myriad  of  interested  relations  who  feel  certain 
1  cannot  comprehend  the  wonderful  way  their  Little  Eva 

103 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

sings  '  Madame  Butterfly,'  proving  it  with  clippings  from 
the  music  column  of  the  Standing  Stone  Gazette!  After 
all,  no  one  is  really  interested  in  you.  I  take  it  Miss 
Clergy  is  keen  on  seeing  you  cheat  a  man  of  love;  isn't 
that  it?" 

'  Yes,"  loneliness  swept  over  Thurley  for  the  instant, 
"  I  don't  suppose  any  one  really  cares  about  me,  because 
the  people  who  did  care  I  ran  away  and  left."  She 
caught  her  underlip  quickly. 

'  Then  the  decks  are  cleared  for  action,"  Hobart  said 
with  relief.  "  Before  you  sing  to-day,  let  me  add  that 
the  greatest  lesson  to  learn  in  order  to  be  a  genius,  no 
matter  in  what  capacity,  is  to  be  impersonal.  Talent  is 
personal.  That  is  why  you  have  so  excellent  a  founda- 
tion." 

"Always  impersonal?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  impatient  of  the  interrup- 
tion. "  We  can't  tell  when  I  haven't  even  heard  you 
sing.  My  dear  child,  were  I  to  map  out  destinies  for 
every  one  who  comes  to  me,  I  should  be  quite  mad.  As  it 
is,  to  be  the  '  final  judgment '  takes  the  disposition  of  a 
dove  and  the  constitution  of  a  lion.  You'll  see  what  I 
mean  later  on.  You  have  had  so  little  education  in  one 
way  that  it  will  be  hard  for  you  to  catch  up.  You'll  have 
to  work  without  ceasing.  But  you  don't  look  like  a 
shirker." 

"  I'm  not,"  she  said,  hating  herself  for  the  flat  remark. 

"  There  are  two  kinds  of  persons  in  this  world,"  he 
mused,  rising  and  going  over  to  the  piano,  "  those  who 
wait  for  a  dead  man's  shoes  and  those  keen  enough  to  em- 
ploy their  own  bootmaker.  I  never  hear  any  one  sing 
unless  I  judge  them  to  be  of  the  last  class  and  so,"  sitting 
down  and  magically  running  his  fingers  over  the  keys, 
"  tell  me  —  what  can  you  sing?  " 

104 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I  love  the  role  of  Marguerite"  she  began  inno- 
cently. 

He  paused  to  chuckle.  "  Bravo !  There  never  was  a 
really  normal  soprano  who  did  not  aspire  to  Marguerite 
for  her  debut.  It  is  as  much  a  soprano  symptom,  as 
it  is  a  tenor  symptom  to  yearn  to  do  sacred  arias  on  Eas- 
ter Sunday  and  a  basso  to  growl  to  be  heard  at  open  air 
music  festivals.  The  only  rhythmic  thing  about  contral- 
tos is  their  delight  in  having  cigars  named  after  them." 
He  looked  up  to  see  if  she  was  laughing  at  his  nonsense. 

"  But  why?  "  she  demanded  seriously. 

"  Well,  why  are  brides  fond  of  trying  scalloped  pota- 
toes in  new  silver  pudding  dishes?  Why  do  young  wid- 
ows join  bridge  clubs  or  why  does  a  boy  cherish  his  first 
teeth  to  trade  in  at  school  for  king-chestnuts?"  He 
picked  out  a  flippant  little  chord  as  punctuation. 

"  You  must  not  call  me  too  stupid,"  Thurley  said  unex- 
pectedly, leaning  her  arms  on  the  piano,  "  but  my  original 
sense  of  humor  —  the  one  I  was  born  with  —  had  to  be 
put  in  cold  storage  when  I  settled  down  at  Birge's  Cor- 
ners and  began  to  borrow  the  minister's  library  in  sec- 
tions. They  just  could  not  have  understood  it.  But  I 
do  believe  it  is  reviving." 

"  A  sense  of  humor  is  the  most  precious  thing  in  the 
world,"  Hobart  told  her.  "  It  ranks  with  a  sense  of 
honor.  And  if  you  had  to  repress  it,  I  am  glad  you 
merely  put  it  in  cold  storage.  Sing  this  scale,  please," 
he  added,  rapidly  striking  the  notes. 

Thurley  sang  it;  then  another  and  some  exercises  which 
she  thought  difficult  and  felt  proud  of  having  done  so 
easily.  They  were  exercises  the  city  organist  had  half- 
way taught  her  and  which  she  had  practised  diligently  by 
means  of  Betsey  Pilrig's  parlor  organ. 

"  Some  more  —  lightly,  quickly  —  no,  no,  you're  hiss- 

105 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ing  —  try  mi  —  mi-mi  —  so."  Again  she  followed  the 
notes  cleverly  —  so  she  thought. 

Hobart  interrupted  with  a  discord.  "  You  naturally 
breathe  well,  but  you  are  frightened.  You  are  not  sing- 
ing but  faking,  and  trying  to  make  me  think  you  are  not. 
My  dear  young  person,  if  I  were  not  able  to  tell  in  half  a 
second  who  is  really  singing  and  who  is  not,  I  would  be 
forced  to  abdicate  instanter.  Now  either  go  home  and 
rest  up  and  take  off  that  company  manner  and  then  come 
back  here  and  sing  or  admit  you  cannot  sing  or  else  — 
sing!  "  He  rested  his  hands  on  the  keys  again. 

"  I  can  sing,"  Thurley  said  almost  sullenly.  "  I  gave 
up  marrying  the  man  I  love  in  order  to  sing." 

"  Good  plot!  I'll  tell  it  to  Caleb  Patmore,  the  novel- 
ist, but  my  line  is  not  writing.  Because  you  have  done 
this  so-called  heroic  feat,  do  not  fancy  you  can  become  a 
grand  opera  singer  as  a  reward,  any  more  than  the  school- 
girl's fancy  is  true  that  nuns  are  broken-hearted  young 
women  taking  poetic  refuge  in  the  veil.  You  are  so 
young  and  fearless  that  you  remind  me  of  a  nice,  willing 
but  as  yet  impossible  puppy  dog  who  needs  to  be  shown  his 
place  in  life.  You  do  not  understand  that  if  you  have 
been  given  a  voice  and  the  will  and  brains  to  train  it  and 
the  soul  of  a  true  artist  to  preside  over  all,"  his  voice  was 
earnest,  "  what  a  gigantic  task  you  are  taking  upon  your- 
self. No  one  has  said  it  better  than  Tolstoy  and  Aylmer 
Maude.  The  former  tells  us,  '  The  task  of  art  is  enor- 
mous, art  should  cause  violence  to  be  set  aside  .  .  .  art  is 
not  a  pleasure,  a  solace  nor  an  amusement,  it  is  a  great 
matter,  art  is  an  organ  of  human  life  transmitting  man's 
reasonable  perceptions  into  feeling.'  And  Maude  has, 
to  my  mind,  finished  the  situation  by  saying  that  '  the  one 
great  quality  which  makes  a  work  of  art  truly  contagious 
is  its  sincerity.'  Foila!  "  he  began  strumming  bass  notes. 

106 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I  must  write  those  things  down,"  Thurley  whispered. 
"  I  must  learn  them  — " 

14  Why?" 

"  They're  so  —  so  —  what  is  it?  Help  me  out!  Re- 
member I'm  from  Birge's  Corners,  IVe  such  lots  of  things 
to  learn  and  I'm  really  quite  afraid  of  you !  "  She  leaned 
nearer  him.  "  I'll  have  to  study  languages  and  history 
and  no  end  of  stuff  and  have  hours  a  day  of  music  and 
love  no  one  and  be  impersonal,  until  I  am  able  to  have 
the  same  look  that  Ernestine  Christian  has  —  she  has 
learned  to  be  impersonal !  I  want  to  cease  to  be  a  coun- 
try girl  with  a  good  voice  and  be  an  individual.  Please, 
Mr.  Hobart,  let  me  sing  Marguerite  for  you!  I'm  not 
half  so  afraid  of  that  as  I  am  of  scales  — " 

He  began  the  music,  and,  looking  away  from  him  at  the 
rough,  plaster  walls,  Thurley  peopled  them  with  a  sea  of 
faces,  as  she  had  done  hundreds  of  times  in  Betsey  Pilrig's 
parlor  or  at  the  little  cemetery  while  she  was  waiting  for 
Dan.  She  wondered  if  Miss  Clergy  heard  her  sing  and  if 
there  would  come  a  chilling  burst  of  criticism  from  this 
man.  She  felt  that,  if  this  were  so,  she  would  turn  on 
him  in  unexplainable  defense  of  her  voice,  ignorant  as  she 
was  of  the  things  still  to  be  achieved. 

Hobart  rose  from  the  piano  and  came  to  put  his  firm 
hands  on  her  shoulders.  "  Genius  has  as  many  symp- 
toms as  measles,"  he  said  abruptly.  "  I'm  afraid  you've 
every  last  one  of  them !  " 

"  You  mean,"  she  said,  tense  as  an  unsprung  trap, 
"that  it  is  going  to  be  worth  while?"  Things  were 
black  and  queerly  shaped  to  her  eyes,  due  to  annoying 
tears.  She  thought  Hobart's  face  a  dozen  cynical,  smil- 
ing faces  peeping  at  her  from  all  sides.  "  Is  it  worth 
while,  if  I  work  very,  very  hard?  " 

"Thurley  (almost  Hoskins)  Precore,"  it  was  as  if  he 

107 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

pronounced  a  decree,  "  for  us  to  stand  here  and  exchange 
the  compliments  and  promises  and  superlative  statements 
we  are  both  thinking  would  be  as  annoying  as  women 
haggling  over  which  shall  pay  the  cabfare !  We  could 
drag  all  manner  of  red  herring  over  the  course  and  merely 
waste  smart  sentences  which  are  in  demand  for  after- 
dinner  speeches.  But  if  you  work  as  I  tell  you  and  do 
not  become  personal  either  in  your  relationship  with  me 
or  your  other  musical  associates  —  it  isn't  as  hard-hearted 
as  it  sounds  —  and  if  this  presuming  young  rustic  from 
Birge's  Backyard  stays  in  the  offing  —  well  —  you'll  make 
your  debut  in  about  a  year!  " 

Thurley  did  not  answer. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  faint,"  he  continued  nonchalantly, 
"  the  settle  is  well-cushioned  and  handy.  I  had  to  have 
one  put  in  here,  for  they  would  go  down  in  absurd  little 
lumps  all  about  the  room  —  sometimes  with  joy,  more 
often  rage !  I  see  you  are  not  going  to  faint,  so  please 
sing  something  else  —  something  to  show  up  the  bad 
spots.  Marguerite  is  rather  full  of  deceptive  curlycues 
—  ah,  I  know  —  hymns  —  yes,  real  old-time  gospel 
hymns !  Then  we'll  do  more  exercises,  because  fright 
has  taken  wings." 

He  played  half  a  dozen  hymns,  all  of  which  she  sang 
without  hesitation,  laughing  down  at  him  between 
stanzas.  She  could  not  understand  her  attitude  towards 
this  baffling,  fearsome  person,  young-old  or  old-young 
whichever  he  might  prove  to  be.  She  found  herself  won- 
dering if  she  would  ever  meet  Ernestine  Christian  and 
Collin  Hedley  and  Caleb  Patmore,  or  if  being  impersonal 
was  to  exclude  them  as  well  as  Hobart.  .  .  . 

"  Good,  good,"  he  said,  turning  from  the  piano  and 
hugging  up  his  knees.  '  Well,  we'll  have  to  get  to  work 
as  fast  as  ever  we  can.  I  believe  in  '  muscular  art,'  the 

108 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

same  as  some  one  else  has  said  of  '  muscular  Christianity  ' 
—  a  sound  mind  in  a  sound  body  is  the  best  foundation 
for  lasting  success.  Success  is  the  sincerity  with  which 
you  do  your  work  and  the  good  your  work  does  some  one 
else  —  remember  that  when  ennui  bursts  in  an  unwel- 
comed  guest  and  you  begin  to  ape  some  of  the  near-great 
who  hover  about.  Art  is  the  expression  of  a  man's  joy 
in  his  work  and  you've  everything  about  and  in  you,  as 
well  as  before  you,  to  prove  to  the  world  the  truth  of 
that  saying.  Many  new  and  confusing  things  will  hap- 
pen shortly.  All  sorts  and  conditions  of  people,  atten- 
tions, praise,  blame,  drudgery,  ease,  dissipations,  monoto- 
nous routine  —  heavens,  child,  it  makes  my  head  ache  to 
think  of  an  absolutely  de  luxe  Topsy  from  Birge's  Back- 
yard with  the  voice  of  an  announcing  angel  set  down  in 
New  York  and  told  to  prepare  herself  for  grand  opera !  " 

He  patted  her  on  the  shoulder.  "  Don't  look  startled, 
Thurley  —  I'll  have  to  call  you  Thurley  because  Precore 
sticks  in  my  throat  —  you'll  weather  through  and  some 
time  —  I'll  tell  you  a  pet  scheme  of  mine  that  per- 
haps — -"  He  actually  was  confused  as  if  he  regretted 
the  remark.  "  But  for  now,  I'll  start  you  off  with  hav- 
ing you  report  here  every  day  at  eleven  and  again  at 
three  —  and  you're  to  do  all  the  other  things  I  tell  you. 
Well,  did  you  think  I  would  order  you  to  Italy  first  to  get 
mellow,  fall  in  love  with  one  of  those  damned  Italian 
officers  with  a  heliotrope-lined  coat  and  then  come  back 
and  let  me  teach  you  to  sing?  God  taught  you  to  sing 
before  you  came  to  earth,  and  you've  remembered  His 
teaching.  .  .  .  Just  learn  the  things  we  men  are  fools 
enough  to  think  we  must  know  and  you  have  won!  " 

He  closed  the  pianoforte  and  opened  the  door. 

"No  more  exercises?"  Thurley  was  tingling  with 
excitement. 

109 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  You're  all  nerves!  Do  you  think  I  need  more  exer- 
cises to  make  me  quite  sure  about  you  —  the  same  as  an 
apron  never  fails  to  convince  a  man  of  the  wearer's  do- 
mesticity? To-morrow  we  begin  to  polish  and  prune. 
Go  home  and  lie  down  and  think  about  the  frivolous 
things  in  the  world.  You'll  be  set  to  work  fast  enough 
...  ah,  Miss  Clergy,  and  did  you  hear  us?  " 

"  I  heard  Thurley  sing,"  Miss  Clergy  said  abruptly. 
"Well  — well?" 

Thurley  answered  by  stooping  down  and  clasping  the 
ghost  lady  in  her  arms.  "  He  says  it  is  worth  your 
while,"  she  whispered. 

"  Then  it  has  been  worth  everything,"  Miss  Clergy 
answered,  more  to  herself  than  to  Thurley. 

Hobart's  secretary  came  in  with  some  announcement 
cards  and  Hobart  paused  before  he  read  them  to  say 
good-by. 

"  To-morrow  at  eleven,  and  Baxter  will  see  you  this 
afternoon  about  other  teachers.  Good-by,  Miss  Clergy, 
and,  Thurley,  happy  days!  " 

He  was  so  kindly  again  and  with  the  suggestion  of  a 
schoolboy  pal  that  Thurley  could  not  resist  the  asking, 
"  Oh,  do  you  find  many  people  worth  all  your  trouble?  " 

Hobart's  eyes  crinkled  with  amusement.  "  To  quote  a 
most  reliable  authority,  the  pushcart  man,  '  What  I  maka 
on  the  peanut,  I  losa  on  the  banan !  ' 

As  they  passed  out  the  door,  Thurley  heard  a  woman's 
voice  saying,  "  Tell  him  Lissa  Dagmar  has  come  to  say 
good-by.  He  won't  keep  me  waiting.  I'm  sailing  this 
afternoon."  There  was  both  a  snarl  and  a  purr  in  the 
voice,  and  Thurley  wondered  if  Lissa  Dagmar  had 
proved  "  peanut  or  banan." 


no 


CHAPTER  X 

If  Miss  Clergy  and  Thurley  were  mysteries  to  the  hotel 
guests  and  attendants,  so  were  the  guests  and  attendants 
mysteries  untold  to  Thurley  and  Miss  Clergy.  To  be 
placed  suddenly  in  New  York  with  unlimited  leeway  in 
opportunities  and  money,  cut  off  from  every  simple,  hu- 
man tie  which  heretofore  had  impressed  itself  on  one's 
emotional  heart  and  be  put  to  work  at  such  a  multitude  of 
things  that  one  could  hardly  remember  which  hour  was 
designated  for  this  and  which  for  that  —  to  say  the  very 
least,  it  was  "  tizzy,"  as  Hobart  obligingly  expressed  it 
for  Thurley  during  one  of  their  lessons. 

No  less  "  tizzy  "  was  it  for  Miss  Clergy  to  waken  from 
a  selfish  lethargy,  with  revenge  the  stimulating  impulse; 
to  try,  all  in  an  instant,  to  find  her  way  back  to  the  proper 
method  of  living  combined  with  modern  requirements  and 
readjustments;  to  become  accustomed  to  strange  noises, 
vehicles,  buildings,  all  manner  of  new  and  bewildering 
novelties  which  every  one  else,  save  her  wild-rose  Thur- 
ley, accepted  as  commonplace;  to  refrain  from  telling 
every  one  who  talked  with  her  the  reason  she  had  taken 
this  homeless  country  girl  to  New  York  and  was  prepared 
to  spend  a  fortune  to  make  her  a  success. 

The  modistes  and  milliners  used  to  gossip  about  it, 
after  they  had  been  in  Miss  Clergy's  rooms  to  take  meas- 
urements and  orders.  So  did  the  bootmaker  Hobart  had 
sent  up,  and  the  riding  master  and  the  language  teacher 
and  the  social  secretary,  who  somehow  slipped  into  her 
place  and  became  one  of  them.  A  veritable  monument 

in 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

to  fashion  and  smartness  she  was,  with  the  way  of  making 
one  sit  up  straight  when  one  was  least  expecting  the  com- 
mand, of  smoothing  out  personal  pronouns  to  the  ease  of 
every  one  concerned,  who  found  time  every  day  to  make 
Thurley  practise  entering  and  leaving  a  room,  bowing, 
shaking  hands,  smiling,  laughing,  holding  her  head  just 
so,  who  had  stacks  of  hateful  cards  and  sheets  of  paper 
on  which  Thurley  must  write  invitations  to  imaginary 
dinners  and  affairs  and  then  reply  to  the  invitations,  who 
told  one  that  the  easiest  way  to  carry  on  a  conversation 
was  to  be  an  excellent  listener,  and  yet,  all  in  the  same 
breath,  made  one  memorize  certain  smart  phrases  or  witty 
bon  mots,  historical  dates  of  importance,  soothing  sen- 
tences which  would  fit  in  for  the  weather,  a  clay  pigeon 
match  or  the  assassination  of  the  president  —  all  these 
things  and  more  did  the  social  secretary  achieve,  Thurley 
groaning  inwardly  as  the  hour  approached  for  her  ar- 
rival. 

Yet  she  stumbled  through  her  lessons  without  bringing 
down  too  many  frowns  on  her  young  shoulders,  and  when 
she  sat  at  the  improvised  dinner  table  with  a  startling 
array  of  crystal  glasses,  goblets  and  small  silver,  and  was 
requested  to  demonstrate  the  use  of  each,  the  social  sec- 
retary nodded  approval  in  a  short  time  and  said  one  day 
in  that  well-bred,  monotonous  voice, 

"  You're  so  shockingly  bright,  Miss  Precore,  I'm  sure 
there's  a  scandal  in  the  family  somewhere,"  laughing 
outright  at  Thurley's  embarrassment. 

"Have  you  really  had  people  more  stupid  than  I?" 
she  demanded. 

"  Dear,  yes!  My  last  two  pupils  were  twins,  Golda 
and  Silva  Muggins  from  New  Mexico.  It  would  take  a 
regiment  to  count  their  fortunes  —  but  their  manners!  " 
She  shrugged  her  trim  shoulders.  "  And  yet  they  both 

112 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

are  engaged  and  doing  nicely  —  I'm  to  finish  buying  the 
trousseaux  to-morrow." 

"  What  frightful  work  to  teach  — "  Thurley  began. 
At  which  the  social  secretary  fled  lest  Thurley  entangle 
her  in  a  really  human  vein  of  conversation  and  endanger 
her  poise. 

Following  these  lessons  Miss  Clergy  would  have  Thur- 
ley come  into  her  room  and  have  her  repeat  all  she  had 
learned,  after  which  Thurley  would  manage  to  escape  to 
her  own  bedroom  to  burst  into  rebellious,  beautiful  song. 
For  singing  at  the  present  time  seemed  to  be  of  the  least 
importance  of  all  the  things  she  didl 

A  gymnast  came  each  morning  before  breakfast  and 
made  her  exercise  and  do  folk  dances,  all  manner  of  antics 
strange  and,  to  her  mind,  ludicrous.  There  was  a  beauty 
doctor  who  did  her  nails  and  took  charge  of  her  hair  and 
skin,  showing  her  which  colors  were  becoming  and  which 
were  not  and  the  test  for  any  woman  in  doubt  as  to  the 
proper  shade  to  wear  —  to  lay  a  strip  of  the  proposed 
goods  across  the  hair,  not  the  throat  or  cheek,  as  women 
fondly  delude  themselves  —  and  see  if  the  light  and  effect 
are  to  be  desired. 

"  How  many  teachers  does  one  great  big  girl  need, 
Aunt  Abby?  "  Thurley  said,  six  weeks  after  Hobart  had 
told  her  the  little  story  of  the  peanut  and  the  banana. 
"  How  do  they  think  one  brain  can  remember  everything? 
How  do  you  know  Mr.  Hobart  isn't  going  to  be  disap- 
pointed after  all?  He  has  never  said  a  word  about  my 
voice  since  that  first  day,  just  scales  and  horrid  nasal 
exercises  and  that  grimy  little  Bohemian  man  to  take  me 
in  tow  half  the  time.  .  .  .  I'm  dead  tired,  that's  the 
truth — "  She  flung  herself  down  in  characteristic  fash- 
ion beside  Miss  Clergy.  She  wanted  some  one  to  ruffle 
up  her  hair  affectionately  or  whisper  there  would  be  a 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

chestnut  party  that  afternoon  near  Wood's  Hollow. 
And  here  the  memory  of  Dan  Birge  would  steal  in,  an 
unwelcome  yet  paramount  personage,  so  she  jumped  up 
and  ran  over  to  the  window. 

"  You  can't  disappoint  me,"  Miss  Clergy  protested. 
"  Mr.  Hobart  has  said  you  wouldn't." 

"Really?"  Her  face  flushed.  "Why,  he's  never 
mentioned  it  — " 

"  It's  a  secret,"  Miss  Clergy  added  childishly. 
"  Don't  give  me  away.  Most  girls  have  to  study  for 
years  and  go  abroad,  but  Mr.  Hobart  wants  to  prove  that 
an  American  trained  girl  can  be  as  great  a  prima  donna 
as  one  who  enters  the  stage  by  way  of  Vienna  or  Paris. 
Come  back,  Thurley,  I  want  to  tell  you  something."  She 
held  out  her  arms  as  stiltedly  as  a  marionette. 

Thurley  obeyed. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  happy  because  you  will  be  both  rich 
and  famous.  Isn't  that  enough?"  Her  bright  eyes 
peered  into  Thurley's  face. 

"  You  mean  because  I'll  keep  my  vow  to  you  about  not 
marrying  —  and  I  ought  to  be  satisfied  to  have  the  other 
things?" 

"  Maybe  so.  I'm  a  queer  old  woman  and  I  choose  to 
live  the  rest  of  my  queer  old  life  as  I  please.  But  I  saved 
you  from  the  terrible,  but  common  fate  —  marrying  a 
small-town  bully  and  being  a  faded  drudge.  We'll  leave 
that  for  the  minister's  daughter." 

"But  Dan  would  never  marry  Lorraine  —  why — " 
Thurley  paused.  She  was  remembering  the  day  Lorraine 
had  brought  her  the  embroidered  set.  How  very  sweet 
was  Betsey  Pilrig's  garden,  far  sweeter  than  the  imported 
scent  they  had  her  use !  How  lovely  and  peaceful  were 
the  green  fields  which  stretched  as  far  as  eye  could  see 
.  .  .  not  tall,  dirty  buildings  with  myriads  of  shaded  win- 

114 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

dows,  each  concealing  some  human  being  with  woes  and 
longings  greater  than  her  own !  How  lovely  was  the  old 
box-car,  the  first  home  the  girl  had  known!  She  had 
worn  pink  linen  that  day  Lorraine  came !  She  had  paid 
for  it  by  extra  lessons  given  in  South  Wales,  and  Dan  had 
sent  her  the  sash  for  a  surprise.  How  simple  but  how 
sane  it  all  had  been!  She  glanced  at  her  blue  velvet 
frock  trimmed  with  moleskin  — "  so  ultra,"  they  mur- 
mured when  they  fitted  it.  Perhaps  this  was  the  better 
way. 

Miss  Clergy  caught  the  drift  of  her  thoughts  and  the 
withered  hand  closed  firmly  over  Thurley's.  "  If  he  did 
marry  her,  you'd  be  glad  to  dance  at  the  wedding, 
wouldn't  you?  "  she  insisted. 

The  actress  in  Thurley  rescued  her  so  that  she  could 
say,  "  Of  course,  that's  all  left  behind.  No  use  being  like 
a  story-book  girl  unless  you  have  a  s-story-book  heart. 
Now  it's  time  for  Mr.  Hobart's  lesson,  mia,  so  I'm  off. 
I  wish  you'd  let  me  walk  sometimes  or  take  a  subway! 
I'm  tired  of  being  whirled  away  in  taxis !  Why,  I 
haven't  even  had  a  moment  alone  at  Grant's  Tomb," 
laughing  in  spite  of  herself. 

Miss  Clergy  smiled.  "  I'm  so  proud  of  you !  "  she  de- 
clared. "  If  I  had  only  found  you  years  ago  — " 

"  I  tried  to  find  you,"  Thurley  reminded. 

"  Ah,  but  you  didn't  sing  that  day!  If  you  had,  every- 
thing would  have  changed  for  us  both.  When  you  sing, 
Thurley,  the  world  is  yours  — " 

Thurley  was  at  the  mirror  fitting  on  a  high  black  hat 
with  a  bunch  of  old-blue  plumes.  "  Do  you  think  any 
one  would  love  me,  if  I  could  not  sing?  "  she  demanded 
impetuously. 

Miss  Clergy  became  confused.  "  Dear  me,  Thurley,  I 
cannot  think  of  you  as  separate  from  your  voice.  There 


would  be  no  Thurley  if  there  were  no  Thurley  voice." 

Thurley  trilled  a  scale  or  so.  She  was  thinking  of  a 
black-haired  lad  who  had  said  many's  the  time,  "  Hang 
your  voice,  Thurley !  It's  you  I  love  —  just  you !  " 
Pink  linen  and  old-fashioned  parlor  organs  did  have  com- 
pensations. 

"  When  you  come  back,  we'll  plan  about  our  real 
home,"  Miss  Clergy  added.  "  My  lawyers  try  to  im- 
press on  me  what  a  neglectful  person  I've  been.  They 
want  me  to  mend  my  ways  and  spend  my  money  —  not  be 
a  sort  of  Hetty  Green  always  travelling  about  with  a  little 
satchel  of  securities  I"  Miss  Clergy's  sense  of  humor 
was  reviving  with  the  rest. 

"Our  real  home  —  besides  the  Fincherie?  You'll 
never  give  that  up?  " 

Miss  Clergy  frowned.  "  Not  the  Fincherie !  I  mean 
here  in  New  York.  We  can't  go  on  living  in  a  hotel.  It 
is  too  common,  too  parvenu.  I  want  the  right  sort  of 
home  for  you,  the  sort  that  your  ability  will  deserve." 

Thurley  was  in  the  doorway.  "  I  beg  you  will  do  noth- 
ing of  the  sort,"  she  said.  "  You  have  loaded  me  now 
with  the  treasures  of  Arabia.  I  beg  you  will  not!  I 
want  to  earn  things  myself —  as  I  did  at  the  Corners  — 
you  must  let  me.  Being  supported  takes  something  out 
of  me,  I  don't  know  what,"  she  clasped  her  hands  in  her 
rapt  fashion.  "  I'd  rather  live  in  a  tiny  room,  or  a  box 
car,  you  know,  and  have  very  skimpy  meals  and  old-style 
clothes  and  study  hard  and  forget  the  meals  and  clothes 
and  then  earn  the  beautiful,  lovely  things.  That  would 
make  me  feel  right,  'way  inside." 

Miss  Clergy's  withered  face  lost  some  of  its  haunted 
expression.  "  Well,  my  dear,  you  shall  wait  then  and 
earn  your  home,  but  I  am  afraid  that,  if  it  is  quite  your 

116 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

own  home,  you  will  not  want  to  share  it  with  a  funny  old 
per- 

At  which  Thurley  flew  across  the  room  and  put  her 
fresh  cheek  against  the  faded  one  to  promise  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  untried  youth  that  the  home  she  should 
earn  would  be  but  half  her  home,  for  the  other  half  would 
belong  to  a  certain  dear  person. 

Whirling  towards  the  studio,  Thurley  drew  Betsey  Pil- 
rig's  letter  from  her  bag.  It  was  the  second  letter  she 
had  had  from  the  Corners,  for  Betsey  Pilrig  undertook 
writing  a  letter  with  the  same  solemn  preparation  that 
most  people  give  to  making  a  will.  It  required  several 
days  of  deciding  "  what  to  say  to  her  "  and  a  battle 
against  natural  inertia  before  she  could  sit  at  the  red- 
covered  dining-table  and  force  her  toil-worn  fingers  to 
write  in  cramped  characters  unreal-sounding  phrases. 
Besides,  Betsey  Pilrig  had  always  sealed  letters  with  the 
firm  conviction  that  maybe  they  would  never  get  there 
anyway,  letters  seemed  such  queer  things  to  go  flying 
about  the  country. 

Not  that  Betsey  had  not  thought  of  Thurley  every 
hour  in  the  day,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  her  house 
and  of  the  Fincherie  to  picture  again  the  blue-eyed  young 
goddess  dancing  imperiously  up  the  walk  or  sitting  under 
gnarled  apple  trees  to  shell  peas  or  peel  potatoes,  singing 
in  glorious  tones  as  she  did  so. 

When  Thurley's  letters  had  come  to  Betsey,  she  and 
Hopeful  read  them  aloud  to  Ali  Baba  and  the  trio  sat  dis- 
cussing the  fate  of  their  songbird.  To  their  minds  the 
"  happening  "  was  still  something  to  be  talked  of  with 
suspicion.  One  does  not  fancy  a  "  ghost  "  taking  a  be- 
loved child  to  the  city,  never  to  return,  and  being  responsi- 
ble, so  it  had  become  known,  for  Dan  Birge's  broken 
heart  and  his  mad  engagement  to  Lorraine. 

117 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  She'll  never  come  back  the  same,"  All  Baba  would 
insist. 

"  Abby  Clergy  will  leave  her  every  nickel,"  Hopeful 
would  supplement.  '  Then  she's  bound  to  come  back 
and  lord  it  over  Dan  Birge." 

"  She'll  be  a  great  singer  —  God  love  and  keep  her," 
was  Betsey's  plea. 

As  Thurley  broke  the  seal  on  the  letter,  she  felt  as  if 
she  wanted  to  drive  to  the  station  willy-nilly  to  take  the 
first  train  to  the  Corners,  to  come  into  the  emporium  and, 
upon  seeing  Dan,  say  that  she  was  "  sorry  "  and  she  still 
wanted  him  to  plan  for  the  new  house  .  .  .  but  she  was 
on  her  way  to  Bliss  Hobart's  studio,  envied  of  the  envied, 
dressed  as  a  "  princess,"  with  strange  wisdom  concerning 
many  things  making  inroads  into  her  simple  heart. 

She  read  the  letter  hastily: 

Dear  Thurley: 

I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you  but  you  ought  to  know  that  Dan 
and  Lorraine  are  engaged  and  every  one  knows  Dan  don't  care  two 
straws  for  Lorraine,  poor  girl,  but  she  is  dead  in  love  with  him. 
He  done  it  for  spite  and  I  guess  they  will  both  be  sorry.  Unless 
he  leaves  town  he  can't  get  out  of  marrying  her  because  her  father 
is  the  minister.  He  looks  haunted  like  and  my  heart  aches  for 
him  and  for  her.  Dear  Thurley,  you  will  not  mind,  you  are  in 
such  a  big  city  with  so  many  things  to  see  and  do  and  all  the 
lovely  clothes  you  say  you  have  and  your  teachers  and  all  the  rest. 
Sometimes  it  seems  a  dream  to  me. 

Will  you  ever  come  back  to  us,  Thurley,  tell  me  if  you  go  to 
church  and  have  they  asked  you  to  sing  in  meeting?  How  is  Miss 
Clergy,  does  she  ever  talk  about  that  Eyetalian  fellow? 

We  are  well  and  Hopeful  and  me  get  along  so  well  in  this  house 
except  that  it  seems  pretty  big  and  that  it  ain't  right  to  take  charity. 
Ali  Baba  misses  you,  he  says  he  will  send  a  box  of  apples  when 
he  gets  the  ones  he  wants  for  you.  Thank  you  for  the  dress  and 

118 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

coat,  they  are  too  fine  for  my  old  self.     God  bless  Thurley  Precore, 

from, 

yours  respectfully, 

B.  Pilrig. 

The  driver  was  opening  the  door  for  Thurley  to  leave 
the  cab.  After  a  moment  she  handed  him  a  bill,  thread- 
ing her  way  through  the  crowd  until  she  reached  the 
studio  building.  She  wondered  if  Hobart  would  notice 
her  manner  and  comment  on  it;  if  she  could  manage  to 
get  through  her  lesson  without  breaking  down.  Dan  and 
Lorraine  engaged  —  with  her  ring — and  it  would  be 
Lorraine's  house  with  the  sun  parlor  that  Thurley  once 
planned  and  the  big  living  room  (right  across  the  front 
of  the  house,  Danny  boy,  and  a  fireplace  big  enough  for 
two  Santa  Clauses)  ;  Lorraine  would  revel  in  the  garden 
pergola  and  plan  the  sun  dial  —  oh,  it  hurt,  it  hurt  — 
she  was  a  miserable,  jealous  coward! 

How  dared  Lorraine  take  her  Dan,  pale-faced,  schem- 
ing little  creature  willing  to  be  a  doormat  for  some  one 
who  did  not  love  her!  As  Thurley  entered  the  elevator, 
the  thought  stimulated  her  in  dangerous  fashion.  .  .  . 
Even  yet,  if  she  were  to  return  to  Birge's  Corners  and 
say  to  Dan,  "  I  am  sorry  —  love  me,  darling,"  he  would 
fling  discretion  and  Lorraine  to  the  winds  and  all  would 
be  as  it  once  had  been.  .  .  .  Well,  she  might  do  it  ... 
after  she  was  famous  ...  it  would  have  twice  the  sting 
and  double  the  triumph.  .  .  .  He  would  have  had  time 
to  regret.  .  .  .  She  did  not  love  Dan  as  dearly  as  she 
loved  love  itself,  he  being  the  ardent  agent  of  the  great 
force.  She  wondered  if  she  could  love  fame  as  much. 
She  had  a  flash  of  realization  of  what  a  broken  heart 
such  as  Miss  Clergy's  must  have  been.  Miss  Clergy  had 
no  talent.  Love  had  been  her  all. 

119 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Hobart  was  playing  a  new  song  as  she  came  into  the 
room.  He  did  not  pause  to  greet  her  but  said,  after  a 
moment,  looking  into  a  mirror  over  the  piano  in  which 
he  could  see  her  quite  distinctly,  "  What  is  wrong?  Only 
a  tight  slipper?  Take  off  that  ridiculous  bonnet  and 
come  here!  I  want  you  to  try  this — "  It  was  such  a 
jarring  contrast,  with  that  wonderful  element  of  sus- 
tained and  hidden  force  which  such  men  as  Hobart  need 
in  order  to  conquer  genius,  that  Thurley  felt  the  past, 
of  Birge's  Corners  and  its  petty  woes  and  happenings, 
fade  as  if  some  one  had  painted  it  out  with  a  mighty 
brush. 

She  came  to  stand  beside  him,  while  he  taught  her  the 
song,  making  no  comment  when  she  finished  but  turning 
to  a  book  of  prosaic  scales. 

"  Please  answer  some  questions,"  Thurley  demanded, 
putting  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  This  is  lesson  time!  "  He  adjusted  a  pair  of  read- 
ing glasses  critically. 

"  Let  me  miss  a  lesson.  I  never  see  you  other  times 
and  I've  the  right  to  ask  questions." 

With  an  amused  smile  he  flipped  at  the  keys.  "  Shoot 
away,"  he  sighed. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  me?  "  she  began  promptly. 

"  I  never  tell  women  what  I  think  of  them.  Please 
let's  get  to  work." 

"  Tell  me  this  —  am  I  a  real  genius?  "  unconscious  of 
the  implied  egotism. 

"  Of  course,"  he  answered  simply.  "  Would  I  bother 
so  much  with  you  if  you  were  not?  Would  I  send  a 
regiment  of  teachers  and  coaches  to  get  you  into  proper 
form?  But  enough  of  that !  Only  don't  let  it  spoil  you. 
Still  I  don't  think  it  will,  because  you've  the  sort  of 
talent  that  is  rock-bottom  foundation.  You're  going  to 

120 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

be  immeasurably  silly  and  have  all  kinds  of  notions  and 
adventures.  I'm  not  interested  in  that  part  of  your  ca- 
reer. I  want  you  to  be  clear  on  this  point."  As  he 
spoke,  he  seemed  aloof,  absolutely  impersonal  and  re- 
moved from  workaday  affairs,  and  Thurley  experienced 
the  sensation  of  embarrassment  at  having  asked  him  any 
questions. 

"  Your  voice  is  my  hobby  just  now."  The  enthusiasm 
of  youth  was  in  his  own.  "  It  is  God-given,  art  conceal- 
ing art.  You  have  that  fire,  dash,  touch  of  strangeness 
that  one  sees  very  seldom.  You  really  would  have  hard 
work  to  spoil  your  voice,  Thurley.  Moreover,  I  would 
have  hard  work  to  teach  you  how  to  sing.  Are  you  sur- 
prised? Oh,  you  thought  as  do  so  many  that  I  would 
teach  you  to  sing  as  one  learns  to  dance  or  paint  on  china, 
some  systematic,  mechanical  accomplishment  ...  all 
wrong!  "  He  brushed  the  entire  range  of  keys  with  his 
hands  as  if  to  express  denial  of  the  fact.  "  God  taught 
you  to  sing,  Thurley.  You  sang  as  well  in  your  Birge's 
Corners  as  you  will  sing  in  opera  —  and  perhaps  better. 
But  you  need  polish,  general  education  along  many  lines, 
endless  drill  and  routine.  As  for  singing,  per  se,  there  is 
nothing  I  can  teach  or  tell  you.  I  can  direct  and  re- 
strain —  that  is  my  part.  So  it\is  with  all  great  artists, 
the  gift  is  quite  complete  and  quite  their  own;  it  is  for 
them  to  be  willing  to  be  directed  and  not  to  shirk  drudg- 
ery." He  was  about  to  add  something  else,  something 
which  it  seemed  to  Thurley  was  a  secret  of  his  very  heart, 
but  he  broke  off  abruptly  with, 

"  Now,  you  young  country  scamp,  sing  hey  and  sing 
ho,  for  you're  wasting  time!  "  So  taking  her  cue,  Thur- 
ley fell  to  work  with  a  zest. 

The  lesson  ended  with  a  surprise. 

"  Try  this  aria  of  Rosina's  in  '  Barber  of  Seville  ' — 

121 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  '  Una  voce  poca  fa.'  I've  a  notion  you  can  make  it 
celestial  harmony  if  you  like.  If  you  can't  do  the  Italian, 
take  a  syllable  and  stick  to  it.  Now — "  Handing  her 
the  music  he  dashed  into  the  aria  in  contagious  spirit. 

'  Very  bad,"  he  commented,  making  a  wry  face  and 
taking  the  music  from  her,  "  but  that's  nothing  against 
the  voice.  A  year  from  now  we  shall  have  the  music 
critics  sitting  up  and  exclaiming.  Run  along,  Thurley, 
and  don't  let  the  rustic  swains  make  you  lose  time  from 
your  lessons." 

She  was  putting  on  her  hat  and  fancied  he  could  not 
see  her  expression.  But  he  surprised  her  with, 

"  You  will  have  all  the  time  in  the  world  for  nonsense 
after  you've  mastered  the  things  you  need  to  know. 
What  you  want  to  do  is  to  put  your  heart  in  cold  storage 
for  a  while,  as  you  did  your  sense  of  humor.  Just  be  an 
amiable  and  obedient  genius-flapper  and  everything  else 
will  true  up  and  appear  in  due  season,  just  as  the  cur- 
tain speeches  during  the  last  act  reveal  the  missing  will, 
the  lost  child  and  soften  the  irate  parent's  heart  against 
the  poor  but  proud  hero." 

"  But  I  don't  want  always  to  have  some  part  of  me  in 
cold  storage,"  Thurley  protested.  "  I've  always  been 
such  —  such  a  very  real  person  that  it's  hard  to  — " 

"  Of  course,  that's  the  best  part  of  it.  Easy  things 
never  get  you  anywhere.  Effective  medicine  is  almost 
always  bitter."  He  came  to  put  his  hands  on  her  shoul- 
ders. 

"  Why,  you're  not  so  old,"  she  said  bluntly,  "  are 
you?" 

"  Not  half  so  old  as  I'd  like  to  be;  age  is  so  safe,  Thur- 
ley, when  you  are  dealing  in  temperament!  You  can 
growl  much  more  effectively." 

"  You  mean  people  fall  in  love  with  you?  "  she  asked 

122 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

spiritedly.  "Is  that  what  you  shrink  from?"  Her 
naive  impertinence  was  unconscious. 

u  I  cringe !  Which  is  worse  than  mere  shrinking." 
He  gave  her  a  little  shake.  "  You  funny,  round-cheeked 
girl,  run  along.  You'll  be  in  opera  before  we  realize  it 
and  adopting  the  airs  and  graces  of  an  empress.  But  I 
shall  remember  you  as  the  direct,  rosy-cheeked  young  per- 
son who  demanded  if  I  feared  having  people  love  me." 
His  eyes  closed  briefly  and  then  he  whirled  her  around  as 
if  she  were  a  small  boy.  "  Be  off!  Ah,  yes,  here's  a 
note  —  I  nearly  did  forget."  He  reached  in  an  inner 
pocket  and  handed  over  a  cream-colored  envelope  with 
a  heavy  lavender  seal. 

"  From  her  who  you  fancied  was  my  wife,"  he  ex- 
plained, enjoying  her  confusion.  "  Ernestine  Christian, 
one  of  our  '  family.'  She  does  not  start  her  season  until 
January,  but  then  she's  going  to  tell  you  all  that.  You'll 
have  to  drive  fast  to  be  on  time,  for  you're  to  take  tea 
with  her  at  half  after  four.  And  don't  forget  two 
things:  First,  you  sang  the  aria  in  five-and-ten-cent 
style ;  and,  secondly,  you're  a  nice  apple-cheeked  kiddie 
and  deserve  splendid  things !  "  He  waved  her  out  jocu- 
larly, and  she  found  herself  going  through  the  anterooms 
reading  the  note  and  not  speaking  to  the  secretary. 

All  it  said  was: 

Thurley  Precore  — 

Come  take  tea  with  me  at  half-past  four.  Bliss  says  we  are  to 
know  each  other. 

Ernestine  Christian. 

Here  at  least  was  a  breathing  space  from  lessons. 
Some  one  had  asked  her  to  tea  who  would,  one  would 
assume,  be  willing  to  answer  questions.  She  called  a  cab 
and  drove  to  the  address. 

123 


CHAPTER  XI 

Thurley  had  no  calling  cards  —  not  every  detail  can  be 
achieved  in  a  magical  space  of  time  —  so  she  told  the 
maid  to  say  it  was  Miss  Precore  and  that  she  was  ex- 
pected. At  which  she  was  shown  into  the  strangest  liv- 
ing-room, to  her  untutored  eyes,  that  she  could  imagine. 
It  had  a  black  and  white  tiled  floor  and  green  Pompeiian 
furniture  with  oddly  shaped  cushions  in  still  odder  places 
and  distinctive  mirrors  hung  on  dull,  green  chains.  The 
piano  was  in  the  center  of  the  room  and  all  about  the 
walls  were  bizarre  black  and  white  etchings  and  some 
fascinating  marines.  At  the  end  of  the  room,  the  light 
striking  it  in  excellent  manner,  was  the  portrait  of  a  man. 
As  Thurley  looked  at  it,  she  wondered  if  she  was  to  go 
from  strange  room  to  stranger  room  seeing  portraits 
which  fascinated  her  and  then  meet  their  originals  only 
to  gaze  on  another  portrait  equally  strange  and  winsome. 

This  man  was  noticeable  for  his  well-shaped  head  with 
its  short,  dark  hair  and  fine,  large  eyes,  hazel  she  would 
judge,  slightly  mocking  and  lying-in-wait  in  their  expres- 
sion. They  were  encased  with  spectacles  of  scholarly 
aspect.  He  had  a  womanish  chin  and  the  tortured,  lined 
brow  of  the  apostle.  Dressed  in  riding  togs,  he  was  sit- 
ting on  the  bench  of  an  old  garden,  one  hand  betraying 
slim,  artistic  fingers  as  it  rested  on  the  head  of  a  griz- 
zled dog. 

Thurley  was  settling  herself  in  a  nearby  chair,  trying 
to  become  accustomed  to  this  very  different  sort  of  "  scen- 
ery," when  a  woman  began  saying  in  a  deep,  rich  voice, 

124 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"Poor  youngster,  tired  out,  aren't  you?  Was  it 
scales?  How  I  hated  them!  Don't  worry,  I  shall  not 
ask  you  to  sing.  Put  this  cushion  behind  you  —  ah,  here 
we  are." 

Thurley  stared  at  her  hostess,  the  same  scarlet-lipped, 
clever-faced  woman  of  the  portrait,  her  blueblack  hair 
combed  high  to-day  and  her  spatulate  hands  clasping  her 
knee  in  boy  fashion.  She  wore  no  jewelry,  but  a  frock 
the  consonance  of  copper  and  silver.  It  gave  the  effect 
of  sunset  over  still  water  and  a  silver-coated  Persian  cat 
stalked  out  to  settle  himself  in  the  fold  of  her  skirt. 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  ask  me,"  Thurley  began, 
feeling  rather  ill  at  ease. 

"  I  never  ask  any  one  I  don't  want.  So  don't  feel 
obligated.  Every  one  says  I'm  selfishness  personified. 
Bliss  says  you're  to  be  one  of  our  family  and  I  want  to  be 
sort  of  elder  sister  —  anyway,  don't  you  approve  of  tea 
and  scandal  at  the  same  time?  "  Her  smile  softened  her 
face.  She  reached  over  to  a  smoking  stand  and  found  a 
cigarette. 

Encouraged,  Thurley  leaned  forward  to  say,  "  I'm 
afraid  I  don't  know  about  the  family.  You  see^I'm  quite 
raw,  as  they  say.  And  dreadfully  confused.  I  find  I 
have  to  acquire  so  many  things  besides  singing  exercises." 

"  I  look  back  fourteen  years  and  see  myself  as  I  look  at 
you.  I  was  droll  for  a  year  or  so.  But  Bliss  claims  you 
have  a  sense  of  humor,  so  everything  else  will  follow  like 
sheep.  You  don't  understand,  do  you?  "  she  said  kindly. 
"  Let's  see  what  the  '  family '  can  do  for  you.  Bliss  is 
such  a  bear  at  explaining  that  he  has  really  turned  you 
over  to  me.  You  see,  Thurley,  there  are  so  many  hun- 
dreds of  the  near-famous  and  so  many  truly-great  persons 
who  abuse  the  name  that  a  select  little  coterie  of  us  — 
myself  and  five  others  —  after  rather  depressing  and  hu- 

125 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

morous  experiences  have  formed  what  we  call  the  family, 
and  we  are  going  to  adopt  you.  It's  quite  a  recommenda- 
tion, but  you'll  realize  it  more  five  years  from  now.  By 
the  way,  I  shall  not  ask  you  to  smoke  —  bad  for  tender 
throats." 

"  How  beautiful,"  Thurley  said  softly,  "  a  family!  " 

"  Just  a  title,  of  course,  but  we  have  our  parties  and 
our  times  together  and  we  talk  of  what  we  like  in  the 
manner  we  like  —  rather  hard  to  plunge  headlong  into 
the  real  meaning  of  things.  I  think  Bliss  was  precipitate 
in  asking  you  to  the  Thursday  dinner  party." 

11  He  hasn't." 

"  But  he  will  —  that's  his  way.  He's  such  a  busy  dear 
that  he  never  does  things  properly.  Now  in  the  fam- 
ily are  myself  and  Polly  Harris,  whom  you'll  know  better 
after  seeing  than  I  can  tell  you.  Remember  she  has  a 
Packard  personality  in  that  Lizzie  Ford  body  of  hers. 
Then  Collin  Hedley  — " 

"  The  artist  who  did  your  picture?  " 

"  The  same.  And  Mark  Wirth,  as  great  a  dancer  as 
you  will  ever  see,"  her  lips  folded  into  a  displeased  ex- 
pression but  she  did  not  explain  the  reason,  "  and  Bliss 
and  there  will  be  yourself.  Then  there  are  Sam  Sparling, 
the  English  actor,  and  the  original  of  that  portrait,"  she 
pointed  to  the  man  who  had  interested  Thurley.  "  His 
name  is  Caleb  Patmore." 

"  Why,  he  writes  stories,"  Thurley  said.  "  Even 
Birge's  Corners  has  become  aware  of  him." 

"  Bless  his  wicked  heart!  "  Ernestine  said  swiftly. 

Thurley  began  to  wonder  why  Caleb  Patmore  ever 
used  any  other  woman  as  a  model  for  heroines  or  Collin 
Hedley  for  his  paintings.  Perhaps  it  was  Ernestine's 
unusual  fashion  of  dress  which  made  every  one  feel  that 
she  had  worn  only  the  least  beautiful  of  her  gowns  or  the 

126 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

careless,  homely  way  she  dressed  her  hair  or  her  unjew- 
elled,  ugly  hands  which  could  coax  from  the  pianoforte 
such  music  as  Thurley  had  never  dreamed  could  exist  — 
or  her  sarcastic  worldliness  tempered  with  a  girlish  ideal- 
ism which  made  her  face  bright  with  smiles.  Then  there 
was  the  strange,  restless  sadness  in  her  eyes  and  the  way 
the  scarlet  mouth  had  of  dropping  into  hurt  little  curves, 
symbolic  of  many  things  of  which  Thurley  was  still  igno- 
rant. Ernestine  Christian  was  indifferent,  even  insolent, 
regarding  her  fame,  but  jealously  proud  of  her  theories 
about  it.  And  when  she  mentioned  Bliss  Hobart  a 
few  moments  later,  she  said  enthusiastically, 

"  He  is  such  a  wonderful  idealist,  so  tremendously  sin- 
cere and  fearless !  Most  idealists  lack  the  courage  to 
express  themselves  and  they  live  and  die  with  the  world 
no  wiser,  but  Bliss  — !  some  day,  when  you,  too,  have  be- 
come worldly  wise  and  a  bit  tired  'way  inside,  you  will 
understand." 

To  which  Thurley  innocently  replied,  "  Is  Caleb  Pat- 
more  an  idealist?  " 

Ernestine  began  playing  with  the  fringe  of  her  sash. 
"  Now  what  do  you  think?  " 

Thurley  looked  at  the  portrait  and  then  at  her  hostess. 
"  I  don't  know,"  she  evaded. 

"  Tut-tut,  tell  me  what  you  think!  Never  mind  what 
you  know." 

"  His  novels,  even  though  they  sell  in  as  small  towns 
as  the  Corners,  are  rather  —  rather  — "  She  floundered 
piteously. 

Ernestine  came  to  the  rescue,  her  scarlet  lips  curving 
down  in  hurt  fashion  as  she  answered,  "  His  novels  for 
the  most  part  comprise  tattling  on  blondined  art  models 
—  and  brides !  Caleb  believes  that  art  must  be  on  a 
strictly  commercial  basis  and  that  no  art  should  be  endur- 

127 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ing,  *  any  more  than  a  bath,'  as  he  explains,  '  but  quite  as 
necessary  and  frequent.'  ' 

"  Oh,  he  is  wrong!  "  Instinctively  Thurley  was  dis- 
pleased. 

"  May  you  always  think  so,  but  when  the  distressingly 
rich  wheeze  up  in  satin-lined  cabs  and  ask  you  to  accom- 
pany them  to  a  distressingly  vulgar  palace  and  have  you 
sing  a  song  or  two  at  a  thousand  dollars  each;  when  every 
one  comes  salaaming  and  saluting  you,  and  you,  too,  begin 
to  have  visions  of  acquiring  a  vulgar  palace  all  your  own 
and  are,  therefore,  pompous  and  impossible  as  so  many  of 
us  foolish  children  of  light  allow  ourselves  to  become; 
when  you  look  about  the  salon  to  select  the  richest  hus- 
band or  admirer  and  deliberately  neglect  your  voice  for 
your  coiffure  and  your  repertoire  for  your  wardrobe  — 
well,  perhapfc  you  may  withstand  it,  but  it  is  a  rare  hap- 
pening! Bliss  says  he  has  yet  to  find  it  otherwise." 

"  A  thousand  dollars  a  song."  Thurley  recalled  that 
day  —  how  many  lifetimes  ago  —  that  Dan  engaged  her 
to  sing  at  his  circus  in  connection  with  "  the  great  swing- 
ing man  "  and  had  emptied  his  spending-money  pocket 
into  her  ragged  lap.  "  Oh,  no,  they  only  pay  a  thousand 
dollars  a  song  in  one  of  Mr.  Patmore's  novels." 

"  Mr.  Patmore,"  continued  the  woman  who  loved  him 
more  dearly  than  she  did  herself,  "  takes  his  copy  from 
friends,  like  a  bee  flitting  here  and  there  and  returning  to 
the  hive  honey-laden.  We  have  all  accused  him  of  hiding 
behind  screens  to  gain  conversation." 

Thurley  laughed.     "  Do  they  never  tip  over?  " 

"  They  do  if  we  suspect  he  is  behind  them,"  Ernestine 
replied  with  a  smile. 

"  What  does  he  do  with  all  his  money?  He  must  be 
very  rich  if  the  reports  are  true.  Why  even  at  the  Cor- 
ners we  sold  a  hundred  copies  of  '  Victorious  Victoria,' 

128 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

and  it  was  stupid,  even  the  description  of  a  new  way  for 
Victoria  to  be  kissed." 

"  '  Victorious  Victoria  ' !  It  is  engraven  on  my  heart. 
I  tried  harder  to  make  him  burn  the  manuscript  than  I 
did  to  play  well  before  Queen  Mary  and  King  George," 
she  said  in  a  dull  voice.  "  Yet  she  was  '  Victorious  Vic- 
toria,' for  she  gave  her  sponsor  a  new  motor  and  a  lot  of 
foolish  jewelry  and  a  Japanese  valet  and  some  first  edi- 
tions that  he  boasted  of  having  wrenched  from  a  million- 
aire at  an  auction  sale  !  You  see,  Caleb  thinks  there  is  no 
need  to  sacrifice  for  one's  ideals  or  to  be  above  a  purchase 
price  for  mediocre  work.  He  says,  '  Writing  is  a  trade. 
We  must  all  come  in  on  a  time  clock  or  be  taken  to  an 
insane  asylum.  Give  the  public  what  it  wants  and  with 
their  money  we  can  buy  what  we  want.  Let  the  public 
take  the  consequent  softening  of  the  brain.  Younger 
generations  will  always  be  appearing  like  spring  violets 
and  measles  to  save  us  authors'  and  artists'  bacon !  * 
There  is  the  alpha  and  omega  of  his  philosophy.  One 
might  as  well  throw  oneself  against  a  stone  fortress  as  to 
make  him  reason  otherwise.  Blind,  blind  as  an  adder!  " 
She  broke  off  abruptly  to  call  Thurley's  attention  to  some 
pottery  she  had  picked  up  in  Dutch  Guiana  which 
could  not  be  obtained  save  as  one  became  a  friend  of  the 
natives. 

Then  a  maid  came  in  with  the  tea-cart  and  Ernestine 
began  asking  as  to  "  one  lump  or  two  —  cream  or  sugar 
or  lemon." 

"  Your  dress  is  so  interesting,"  Thurley  remarked  to 
break  the  lull. 

"  Thanks.  I  loathe  clothes,  yet  have  to  have  those 
dreadful  creations  when  I  go  on  tour  —  the  critics  always 
expect  it.  They  put  notices  in  the  social  columns,  too! 
My  revenge  will  come  when  I  am  in  the  perilous  forties. 

129 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

I  shall  be  constantly  clad  in  black  chiffon  and  steel  em- 
broideries with  ermine  and  broadcloth  for  the  outer 
layers.  I  aspire  to  be  the  sort  of  older-than-I-look-but- 
not-yet-ancient  person  who  has  the  proper  air  of  mystery, 
always  an  asset,  the  sure,  fine  lines  of  a  Helleu  dry  point, 
you  know." 

"  No,  I  don't  know,"  Thurley  admitted  drolly. 

Ernestine  clapped  her  hands.  "  Fine,  we  are  coming 
on!  Take  some  more  marmalade.  Please  don't  let 
them  spoil  you,  Thurley,  you're  so  nice  as  you  are.  I 
mean  the  army  of  make-overs  who  assail  any  one  with 
ability.  They  have  not  begun  attacks  as  yet.  Wait 
until  you  are  asked  for  written  recommendations  and 
some  one  invents  a  Thurley  perfume.  Oh,  that  you 
might  be  spared!  "  She  held  up  her  hands  in  horror. 

"  Does  Mr.  Hobart  really  think  I  shall  be  a  great 
singer? "  Thurley  was  experiencing  her  first  stage 
fright,  hence  the  repetition. 

"  No  one  sees  him  the  second  time  unless  he  does," 
Ernestine  informed  her.  "  Tell  me  about  yourself.  Re- 
member I'm  a  cross  pianist  who  dislikes  having  ability 
and  yet  would  die  if  I  did  not.  You  can  trust  me,  because 
no  one  ever  comes  near  me !  " 

"  Don't  you  adore  your  work?  "  Thurley  asked  in  re- 
proach. 

Ernestine  shook  her  head.  "  Really,  I  think  genius  is 
something  no  other  member  of  your  family  would  coun- 
tenance, something  your  ancestors  have  saved  up  to  hand 
you  unawares.  I  cannot  help  playing  the  piano.  They 
say  I  even  make  people  like  Bach,  but  I  wish  I  could,  for 
it  is  life  to  me,  after  a  fashion,  and  death  after  another. 
You  cannot  mix  house-and-garden  living  and  a  career  any 
more  than  oil  and  water.  It  must  be  the  choice  absolute 
of  one  or  the  other.  If  a  big  person  marries,  she  often 

130 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

marries  some  one  inferior  and  therein  lies  disaster. 
Moral,  do  not  marry." 

Thurley's  fingers  stole  inside  her  pocket  to  clutch  at 
the  corner  of  Betsey's  letter.  "  But  you  can  be  happy, 
if  you  do  not  marry,"  she  said  uneasily. 

"Has  it  begun  to  worry  so  soon?  Wake  up,  Silver 
Heels !  Tell  her  there  is  much  else  besides  the  little  hope- 
chest  crowded  with  pink-ribboned  nighties  and  cook 
books."  She  stirred  the  Persian  kitten  with  her  slipper 
toe. 

"I  —  I've  been  engaged,"  Thurley  announced,  not 
knowing  why. 

"  Of  course  you  have,  living  in  a  small  town  and  with 
those  eyes !  Who  was  he  —  not  the  constable?  I  could 
believe  anything  of  you,  Thurley,  but  that !  "  Ernestine 
was  kindly  and  teasing  all  in  one. 

"  Just  a  nice  boy,"  she  said  with  an  effort,  "  but  I  gave 
him  up." 

"  You  did  wisely.  It  is  the  trying  to  delude  ourselves 
to  clutch  with  one  hand  for  a  laurel  wreath  and  for 
orange  blossoms  with  the  other.  That  is  what  makes  us 
failures  on  both  sides  of  the  question.  You  must  see  Col- 
lin's  lovely  country  place  up  the  Hudson,  and  we  must  go 
to  some  lectures  together.  Besides,  you  have  all  Europe 
to  exclaim  over.  I'm  going  to  walk  through  Spain  next 
summer.  Come  along?  " 

"  I'd  love  to  if  —  if  I  have  the  money  — " 

"  We'll  find  the  money.  You  must  do  these  things. 
Bliss  is  making  a  little  machine  out  of  you  with  his 
blessed,  idealistic  self,  hidden  like  a  monk  under  his  habit. 
Never  mind  —  bright  days  for  Young  America  —  want 
to  hear  me  play?  " 

"Would  you,  really?" 

"  Listen !  "     Rising,  she  went  to  the  piano  and  began 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  The  Two  Larks,"  gliding  from  that  into  some  things 
of  Grieg. 

When  she  finished,  Thurley,  ruthlessly  scattering  cake 
crumbs,  came  beside  her.  The  timid  country  girl  had 
vanished.  She  was  the  wild-rose  Thurley  with  the  "  fire, 
dash,  touch  of  strangeness." 

"  Let  me  sing  for  you !  You  can  tell  me  the  truth,  bet- 
ter than  Mr.  Hobart.  Oh,  but  you  can !  "  she  begged. 

Ernestine  pointed  to  the  shelves  of  music,  but  Thurley 
shook  her  head. 

"  I'll  play  for  myself,"  sitting  on  the  bench  beside  her 
hostess. 

The  chords  were  few  and  far  between,  but  the  girl's 
voice  rose  high  and  clear  with  the  ethereal  quality  of  a 
child's,  as  she  sang  an  old  Scotch  ballad. 

Ernestine  Christian  drew  her  to  her  with  a  sudden,  deft 
gesture.  "  Shall  I  pity  or  congratulate  you?  "  she  asked, 
her  sallow  cheeks  flushed  with  excitement. 

Then  they  fell  to  talking,  as  women  will,  of  lighter 
things,  and  by  degrees  Thurley  found  herself  in  Ernes- 
tine Christian's  bedroom  —  a  striking  affair  in  yellow  lac- 
quered furniture  with  Chinese  designs  in  gold,  ivory  walls 
and  huge,  black  fur  rugs  which  she  had  brought  from  Rus- 
sia. There  was  point  de  venise  and  fillet  lace  over  gray 
silk  for  the  furniture  coverings  and  a  veritable  sheath  of 
photographs,  among  which  Thurley  found  Bliss  Hobart's. 

Then  Thurley  found  herself  taking  note  of  Ernestine's 
gowns,  learning  many  things  which  she  resolved  to  put 
into  practice.  She  discovered  that  Ernestine  Christian 
had  just  celebrated  her  thirtieth  birthday  and  was  indif- 
ferent to  the  fact  in  any  way;  that  Bliss  Hobart  had  had 
a  fever  when  a  lad  and  hence  the  grayish  hair;  that  Polly 
Harris  was  as  good  a  treat  as  a  fairy  pantomime  but  she 
carried  a  heart-break  bravely  concealed,  for  she  loved 

132 


Collin  Hedley,  the  childish,  irresponsible  artist,  and  she 
had  not  the  greatness  of  genius  in  herself  for  which  she 
so  longed.  Also,  there  was  a  Madame  Lissa  Dagmar 
whom  Ernestine  disapproved  of  but  spoke  no  open  ill 
concerning.  This  Madame  Dagmar  threatened  the  wel- 
fare of  Mark  Wirth,  the  dancer,  for  she  had  fallen  in 
love  with  him  and  turned  his  head  with  strange  notions, 
and,  lastly,  this  Thurley's  woman  heart  told  her,  Ernes- 
tine Christian  loved  the  popular,  irreverent  novelist, 
Caleb  Patmore,  but  she  believed  marriage  would  inter- 
fere with  his  work  as  well  as  her  own,  so  she  stead- 
fastly stood  him  off  in  that  tantalizing  fashion  common 
to  women  of  brilliant  attainments  and  childish,  hungry 
hearts. 

When  Thurley  left  her,  the  sting  as  to  Lorraine  and 
Dan's  engagement  had  been  spirited  away  —  she  knew 
not  how.  Perhaps  it  was  the  graceful  way  in  which  Er- 
nestine had  welcomed  her,  the  new  surroundings,  the 
music,  the  confidences  about  these  u  stars  in  the  artistic 
firmament,"  as  Birge's  Corners  would  have  expressed  it, 
the  knowledge  she  was  to  be  one  of  the  sacred  family 
which  had  hidden  its  existence  even  from  press  agents,  or, 
thrilling  thought,  that  she  was  to  be  famous  and  rich  — 
or  was  it  none  of  these?  Was  it  that  Thurley  learned 
more  about  Bliss  Hobart?  —  that  he  was  an  idealist  who 
seldom  expressed  ideals,  lest  they  become  trampled  upon 
and  return  to  him  in  cynical  disguise;  that  he  was  not  old 
but  young  in  fact  and  unmarried,  and,  as  yet,  interested 
in  no  woman  personally  save  as  his  two  friends,  Polly  and 
Ernestine,  amused  him;  and,  best  of  all,  that  he  told 
Ernestine  to  be  particularly  nice  to  Thurley  Precore,  nicer 
than  she  had  been  to  any  other  girl  he  had  trained  and 
presented  to  the  public ! 

133 


CHAPTER  XII 

Hobart  did  invite  Thurley  to  the  family  dinner  party. 
With  customary  tardiness  the  invitation  did  not  reach  her 
until  the  afternoon  of  the  day,  late  afternoon  in  fact, 
after  a  fatiguing  round  of  "  polishings  off,"  as  she  dubbed 
them,  and  an  hour  with  Miss  Clergy  during  which  she 
had  read  aloud  from  an  archaic  little  romance  and  had 
listened  to  the  ghost-lady  murmur  her  opinions. 

Very  swiftly  it  was  becoming  clear  to  Thurley  that 
fame,  even  the  great,  dazzling  fame  of  which  the  work-a- 
day  world  reads  with  awe,  merely  meant  one  had  a  dif- 
ferent standard  of  values;  that  all  emotions  such  as  joy, 
sorrow,  anger,  renunciation,  cowardice,  heroism  and  so 
on  were  relative.  Tom  Jones  and  wife  and  child  in  Skid- 
deoot,  Missouri,  might  attain  as  great  joy  over  acquiring 
a  terrifically  green-colored  bungalow  and  veneered  ma- 
hogany to  decorate  the  parlor,  while  Mrs.  Tom  was  to 
have  a  woman  to  wash,  and  Mr.  Tom  membership  in  the 
Skiddeoot  bowling  club  —  quite  as  much  joy  as  Ernestine 
Christian  when  she  stayed  at  Buckingham  Palace  an  hon- 
ored guest  and  had  on  her  dressing  table  the  miniatures 
of  the  young  princes  and  a  certain  jewelled  box  given  her 
by  the  king  of  Italy.  The  lives  of  these  luminaries,  when 
one  came  to  know  them  on  equal  footing,  were  composed 
of  a  multitude  of  trivial  details,  the  same  as  were  the 
Joneses'  of  Skiddeoot  —  the  proper  breakfast  food,  an- 
noyance of  a  thunder  shower,  the  wrong-sized-gaiters,  the 
intense  dislike  of  parsnips,  the  fondness  for  Japanese 
prints,  the  staunch  conviction  as  to  when  the  world  was  to 

134 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

i 

end,  the  way  to  eat  one's  melons  (in  Skiddeoot  it  would 
be  porridge),  the  best  style  of  spring  motor  car  (in  Skid- 
deoot it  would  be  whether  to  have  the  Ford  wheels  red 
or  yellow) —  and  so  on  through  an  endless  list  of  things 
about  which  physical  and  mental  existence  is  centered. 

Thurley  had  been  exceptionally  spared  the  grind  and 
slow  advancement  of  the  average  artist.  On  the  other 
hand,  she  had  experienced  both  grind  and  decidedly  de- 
pressing experiences  during  her  travels  in  the  box-car. 
She  was  now  placed,  as  it  were,  in  the  front  ranks  of  the 
artistic  world  and  allowed  to  gaze  about,  investigate, 
presume,  acquire  knowledge,  as  much  as  her  own  possibil- 
ities would  permit.  Her  possibilities  being  above  the 
average,  Thurley,  inside  of  the  few  months  in  New  York, 
had  come  to  the  settled  conviction  that  folks  were  really 
just  folks  no  matter  how  they  were  dressed,  and  the  ar- 
tists quite  the  same  as  the  population  of  Birge's  Corners, 
only  in  a  different  setting  and  with  a  different  set  of 
values. 

It  was  rather  disappointing  to  come  to  the  conclusion, 
not  at  all  romantic  and  stimulating  or  in  keeping  with  the 
conclusions  Caleb  Patmore's  "  Victorious  Victoria  "  had 
arrived  at  in  an  amazingly  short  space  of  time.  It  was 
like  a  child's  suddenly  being  put  on  everyday  relations 
with  Santa  Claus  himself  and  finding  out,  besides  his  abil- 
ity to  ride  reindeer  skyward,  and,  toy-laden,  shoot  down 
narrow  chimneys,  that  he  had  a  gouty  foot  the  same  as 
Oyster  Jim's,  was  rather  caustic  if  his  eggs  were  over- 
done, was  a  Republican,  body,  boots  and  breeches,  the 
same  as  Ali  Baba,  and,  if  he  lost  three  games  of  cribbage 
straight  running,  was  distinctly  "  peeved." 

So  Thurley  advanced  beyond  the  illusions  of  the  un- 
initiated. Before  she  came  into  Bliss  Hobart's  dominion 
she  had  been  one  of  the  public,  the  sort  of  public  who 

135 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

believe  newspaper  reports  of  opera  singers  having  frolic- 
some boa-constrictors  as  family  pets,  to  welcome  them 
when  they  stagger  home  under  van-loads  of  orchids  from 
the  evening's  work!  She  saw  now  with  the  clear,  in- 
nocent eyes  of  youth,  which  is  so  often  wiser  than  dic- 
tatorial and  narrow  middle  age,  that  the  common  lot  was 
the  universal  lot  and  that  in  the  sum  total  of  all  things 
the  famous  ones  were  spared  no  more  nor  less  nor  given 
greater  qualities  of  endurance  or  supreme  power. 

Had  the  invitation  to  the  "  family "  dinner  come  a 
week  ago,  Thurley  would  have  hesitated  before  accept- 
ing. But  Ernestine  Christian's  personality  —  as  yet  it 
was  not  Ernestine  Christian's  real  self  since  she  betrayed 
that  to  no  one  —  had  woven  a  big-sister  armor  about 
Thurley's  wild-rose  self.  She  was  eager  to  become  one 
of  the  family,  unconscious  of  the  honor  for  which  many 
had  sighed  and  bribed  for  in  vain.  She  showed  the  note 
to  Miss  Clergy  and  became  very  flapperlike  on  the  subject 
of  her  costume. 

"  Wear  any  you  like,"  Miss  Clergy  said  fondly. 
"  Dear  me,  I  sha'n't  go.  I'm  an  old  lady,  sleepy  as  an 
infant  by  half  after  eight." 

"  Must  I  always  be  alone?  "  Thurley  protested. 

Miss  Clergy,  whose  girlhood  had  been  bounded  on  all 
sides  by  the  "  Polite  Letter  Writer "  and  "  Godey's 
Lady's  Book,"  hesitated.  "  Take  a  maid,"  she  urged. 

"  For  protection?  Goodness,  no!  Why,  I've  walked 
at  midnight  in  the  darkest  road  at  home,  when  Philena 
would  be  taken  very  ill  and  we  had  to  have  the  north 
end  doctor.  I'll  go  alone  —  and  wear  my  green  velvet." 

"  If  you  want  more  dresses  — "  began  Miss  Clergy 
cheerily.  When  one  had  a  wild-rose  girl  with  the  voice 
of  a  lark,  revenge  just  naturally  lost  its  grim  and  ugly 
aspects. 

136 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

But  Thurley  shook  her  head  and  vanished,  singing 
snatches  of  her  exercises  and  finding  out  that  she  was  not 
so  tired  as  she  had  fancied;  the  languor  had  magically 
vanished.  She  propped  Hobart's  tantalizing  note  on  her 
dressing  table  as  she  did  her  hair. 

Thurley  — 

Come  and  be  christened  at  seven-thirty.  The  family  must 
know  the  baby. 

B.  H. 

Thurley  deliberately  powdered  her  face  and  added  a 
soupgon  of  superfluous  rouge.  She  was  thinking,  "  Now 
I  shall  know  the  real  man,  the  real  Bliss  Hobart,"  drop- 
ping into  a  hum  instead  of  singing  aloud,  always  a  symp- 
tom of  rare  joy. 

Presently  she  appeared  to  say  good  night  to  Miss 
Clergy,  a  radiant  young  person  looking,  as  Caleb  Pat- 
more  said  afterwards,  "  an  up-to-date  historical  romance 
bound  in  green  velvet  and  silver  lace."  But  she  was  dis- 
appointed in  Hobart's  apartment,  for  she  realized  at  a 
glance  it  was  only  more  of  his  "  setting";  that  here  he 
existed  as  Bliss  Hobart  the  critic  and  master,  not  Bliss 
Hobart  the  man.  It  was  equally  as  awesome  as  his 
studio  offices,  but  in  a  more  distinguished,  definite  style. 
There  was  rare,  decorative  wall  paper,  with  shellacked 
panels  set  in  the  yellow,  marbleized  walls  reproducing  the 
design  made  by  David  for  the  great  Napoleon.  Black, 
velvety  carpet  covered  the  tiled  floors,  the  chairs  were  of 
deep  mouse  color  edged  with  gold  fringe,  there  were  pale 
gray  hangings  against  shell  pink  satin  screens  and  a  tiled 
Portuguese  mantel  of  blue  and  yellow. 

She  found  Ernestine  Christian  and  Caleb  Patmore 
waging  a  lively  argument,  with  Bliss  Hobart  enjoying  it 

137 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

hugely.     Nor  did  they  stop  after  Thurley' s  bashful  en- 
trance and  Hobart's  introduction, 

;'  The  family  infant !  Remember,  '  children  should  be 
seen  and  not  heard.'  There's  the  chair  for  you,  and  if 
you  are  very  '  pie  '  and  don't  contradict  your  elders,  you'll 
be  rewarded  later." 

Thurley  accepted  the  role  gladly.  It  was  evident  they 
considered  her  a  promising  infant.  Some  day  she  would 
be  able  to  tell  them  the  same  half-patronizing  things  or 
be  introducing  some  other  prodigy  into  the  family  in 
equally  clever,  blase  fashion.  That  first  and  memorable 
dinner  party  was  more  of  an  education  than  all  the  lessons 
Thurley  had  endured  since  her  New  York  advent.  Here 
she  saw  the  demonstration  of  the  theories  taught  her  re- 
garding form,  cleverness  and  so  on.  Long  before  the 
evening  was  ended,  she  felt  she  could  now  dispense  with 
the  social  secretary,  the  beauty  doctor  and  the  gymnast. 
She  had  only  to  observe  her  "  family  "  and  practise  the 
results  of  the  observation  before  her  mirror. 

"  We  are  waiting  for  Polly  Harris  and  Collin  Hedley," 
Hobart  remarked  during  a  lull  in  the  battle.  "  Polly  is 
as  punctual  as  an  alarm  clock,  but  Collin  would  not  be  on 
time  at  his  own  funeral,  if  it  were  possible.  We  always 
give  him  a  half  hour  leeway  and  never  mind  because  Polly 
is  such  fun  when  she  rages." 

Thurley  murmured  some  reply,  and  then  Caleb  Pat- 
more,  who  had  been  looking  at  her  almost  rudely,  began 
anew  his  argument.  Despite  his  depraved  ideas  regard- 
ing novel  writing,  Thurley  liked  him.  He  had  the  clean- 
cut  business  air  which  she  admired,  rather  than  the  air 
of  the  proverbial  long-haired  novelist  with  a  hemstitched 
neck  scarf. 

"  Of  course  we  respect  Daphne,"  he  said  grudgingly. 
"  For  five  years  she  has  made  her  living  writing  poetry  — 

138 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

POETRY  —  and  how  many  can  say  as  much?  No  bribes 
of  the  corset  makers  for  limerick  advertisements  ever 
tempted  her,  but  now  she  has  sensibly  surrendered  in 
favor  of  marrying  one  Oscar  Human,  Indiana  plumber  at 
large.  The  only  remarkable  thing  about  it  is  that  Oscar 
Human  would  marry  a  failure  poetess  who  must  have 
forgotten  how  to  cook  a  boiled  dinner  or  be  interested  in 
the  new  style  nickel  fittings!  Well,  luck  to  Daphne 
Rhodes,  but  what  good  was  it  all?  A  starved,  embit- 
tered space  filler,  she  admitted,  soothing  a  makeup  man's 
difficulties  by  rounding  out  the  page  with  a  plump  son- 
net." 

Ernestine  walked  over  to  the  mantel  in  order  to  look 
as  majestic  as  possible,  so  Hobart  called  out.  She  was 
very  lovely  in  her  crystal  colored  satin  with  silvery 
panels  and  those  interesting,  homely  hands  of  hers 
clasped  awkwardly. 

"  You  do  love  fleshpots,  Caleb,  no  matter  whether  an 
Indiana  plumber  or  an  editor  bestows  them.  You'll  have 
Daphne  taking  orders  for  your  next  novel,  I  dare  say  —  a 
premium  with  every  new  kitchen  sink  Oscar  installs ! 
You  wretch!  I've  no  doubt  Daphne  is  going  to  be 
happy,  at  least  her  experience  as  a  poetess  will  mercifully 
teach  her  never  to  let  this  Oscar  know  how  commonplace 
he  is.  Therein  will  lie  the  success  of  the  union.  As  soon 
as  Polly  comes,  we'll  decide  on  the  wedding  present. 
For  my  part,  I  think  Daphne  has  done  a  brave  thing  to 
hold  to  the  best  in  herself,  and,  when  she  saw  she  was 
unable  to  attain  her  goal,  to  drop  back  gracefully  into  the 
house-and-garden  rank  and  file." 

Caleb  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Well,  long  ago  I  be- 
came tired  of  being  a  literary  chameleon  and  trying  to 
match  up  every  editor's  bark !  I  found  out  what  the 
reading  public  wanted  and  I  have  given  it  to  them  — 

139 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

great  hunks  of  it!  I  haven't  come  out  so  badly,  eh? 
Now,  Daphne  could  have  done  the  same."  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair  looking  defiantly  at  Ernestine. 

"  You  are  trying  to  make  me  the  man  in  the  divorce 
case;  his  wife  took  the  furniture  and  the  five  children  and 
he  took  the  blame.  But  I  challenge  you,  Caleb,  to  prove 
that  you  have  ever  really  written  a  good  story  —  a  story 
you  felt  and  loved  and  were  willing  to  fight  for  until  it 
was  printed." 

"  You've  never  gone  through  my  attic  trunks,"  he  re- 
minded. "  Besides,  the  public  doesn't  like  highbrow 
stories.  They  like  stories  about  people  who  are  capable 
of  wearing  pink  underwear,  and  a  villain  must  be  a  villain 
if  found  carrying  a  riding  crop.  Just  when  I  am  settled 
in  my  mind  concerning  my  next  heroine,  Ernestine  breaks 
out  with  uplift,  as  annoying  as  to  have  a  motor  stuffed 
with  relatives  drive  up  to  the  door  at  dinner  time,"  he 
informed  Hobart.  "  Can't  you  lend  a  hand?  " 

"  How  can  I,  when  I  want  to  stay  friends  with  you 
both?  By  Jove,  there's  the  bell;  they've  arrived." 

Ernestine  blew  Caleb  a  kiss  and  murmured,  "  If  one 
cannot  write  au  nature],  I  presume  it  must  be  ait  gratin!  " 

Then  there  swept  into  the  room  two  of  the  strangest 
and  most  delightful  persons  Thurley  had  ever  seen. 
Collin  Hedley  came  first,  a  fair-haired,  boyish  man  with 
eyes  so  joyous  and  brilliant  one  could  not  look  at  them 
for  long,  and  the  bristly  head  of  the  plebeian  with  deep 
incurvation  of  the  temples.  He  was  most  carelessly 
dressed,  but  no  one  would  have  noticed  that  as  long  as 
his  eyes  smiled;  he  had  a  mad  Van  Dyke  beard  and  a 
lovable  yet  combative  mouth  which  might  or  might  not 
prophesy  many  things. 

But  it  was  Polly  Harris  who  captivated  Thurley's  heart 
and  made  her  forget  her  shyness.  Polly  had  the  fash- 

140 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ion  of  bombarding  one's  self-consciousness.  She  could 
have  changed  the  saying,  "  A  cat  may  look  at  a  king  "  to 
"  a  cat  may  order  a  king."  Even  Bliss  Hobart  lost  dig- 
nity in  her  presence. 

"  Polly  can  teach  you  to  write  vers  libre  on  your  cuff 
and  tell  a  Chicago  art  patron  from  a  Pittsburg  coal  dealer 
at  a  distance  of  fifty  yards,"  was  Hobart's  universal  rec- 
ommendation. But  Polly  Harris  could  do  a  great  deal 
more. 

She  reminded  one,  although  her  age  was  less  than  Er- 
nestine's, of  October  sunshine,  partly  because  she  was  a 
tiny,  wood-brown  thing,  an  oddity,  a  fact  she  well  knew, 
flat-chested  as  a  boy,  with  tanned  skin,  eyes  like  topazes, 
if  she  were  happy,  and  her  brown  hair  bobbed  like  a 
child's  and  fastened  with  a  ridiculous  velvet  bow.  Her 
dresses  were  inevitably  the  same  —  since  her  income  was 
likewise  —  Polly's  regimentals,  they  called  them,  brown 
corduroy  for  winter,  made  in  semi-smock,  semi-Eton- 
jacket  style  with  an  abbreviated  skirt  and  stout  little  boots 
laced  as  if  for  a  walking  tour.  In  the  summer  Polly 
appeared  in  brown  cotton  made  in  similar  fashion  and 
when  she  was  dragged  to  some  formal  affair  she  would 
be  induced  to  wear  her  "  heirloom,"  a  brocaded  brown 
velvet  which  Ernestine  had  brought  from  Paris.  Polly 
was  just  Polly  with  her  crisp  little  voice,  a  heart  of  gold 
and  a  tongue  which  could  be  sharp  as  a  battle  lance  or 
as  tender  as  pink  rosebuds. 

"  The  only  sprite  in  captivity,"  the  family  dubbed  her, 
pitying  her  impossible  aim  —  to  write  grand  opera  —  and 
never  hinting  what  tragedy  lay  before  her  when  the 
tanned  face  would  wrinkle  and  the  bobbed  hair  turn 
gray.  It  was  as  probable  that  Polly  Harris  could  write 
a  grand  opera  as  that  Betsey  Pilrig  could  lead  the  Rus- 
sian ballet  —  but  Polly,  as  so  often  happens  in  the  case 

141 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

of  "  captured  sprites,"  saw  none  of  the  absurdity  encasing 
her  ambitions. 

No  one  knew  just  how  she  lived,  for  she  had  the  fierce 
pride  of  failures.  "  Sure  'nuff  "  successes  or  "  comers  " 
are  always  more  amenable  to  loans  and  helping  hands. 
In  her  sky  parlor,  the  tiptop  room  in  a  bohemian  New 
York  rooming  house,  Polly  somehow  wrested  from  fate 
and  the  world  at  large  a  living.  Limericks  and  hack 
work  of  hideous  monotony  and  starvation  wage  with  the 
pride  of  her  family  behind  her !  Her  father  had  been  an 
Ohio  judge  and  her  grandfather  a  senator,  while  Polly, 
alone  and  without  resources,  had  wilfully  burned  family 
bridges  some  years  before  and  drifted  to  New  York  to 
write  her  operas. 

Even  Polly  admitted  the  first  operas  were  hopeless, 
bravely  burning  them  as  one  does  old  love  letters.  But 
grand  opera  remained  her  goal;  nothing  less  would  or 
could  satisfy  her.  After  seven  desperate  years  of  work 
and  insufficient  means,  Polly  had  become  one  of  the  fam- 
ily of  the  very  great  and  was  envied  by  all;  it  meant, 
however,  that  she  took  from  this  family  not  one  jot 
of  aid  or  influence  nor  permitted  them  to  know  whether 
"  we  are  eating  to-day  or  we  are  moving  our  belt  strap 
into  the  next  hole." 

Sometimes  the  family  outwitted  Polly  Harris  and 
helped  her  in  spite  of  herself,  but  more  often  they  knew 
it  was  kindest  to  not  try.  So  they  did  the  finest  thing 
of  all  because  the  girl's  fine  self  deserved  and  demanded 
it  —  they  took  her  in  as  one  of  them  and  talked  of  the 
day  her  operas  should  be  sung,  listening  to  her  pitiful 
dreams  as  kindly  as  they  would  have  listened  to  Wagner 
could  he  have  been  among  them  telling  of  his  Rhinegold ! 
Polly  had  become  a  character  in  artistic  New  York  and 
when  the  near-great  enviously  urged  her  to  make  use  of 

142 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  truly  great,  to  accept  some  easy  position  as  secretary 
or  companion  to  this  celebrity  or  that,  Polly's  eyes  would 
change  to  angry,  storm  things  and  she  would  turn  on 
them  with  the  threat  that  they  would  still  see  her  win 
out,  some  day  the  great  theme  would  come  to  her  and  the 
world  admit  her  success !  Then  she  would  repay  the 
beloved  family  for  their  kindness  in  not  forcing  old 
clothes  and  baskets  of  food,  loans  of  money  —  as  one 
tipped  a  maid.  Polly  would  be  famous,  as  famous  as 
Ernestine  Christian  or  Bliss  or  the  lazy  deceiver  of  a 
Caleb  or  Collin  Hedley  whom  Polly  loved  in  strange  fash- 
ion although  he  was  honestly  unconscious  of  the  fact. 

Until  then  painting  lamp  shades  at  night,  writing 
wretched  verse  for  some  wretched  publication,  doing  a 
child's  song  cycle  for  almost  the  cost  of  the  music  paper, 
harmonizing  impossible  marching  songs,  substituting  at 
a  Harlem  movie  house  as  the  piano  player  —  none  of 
these  was  too  mean  for  Polly  to  do  since  they  sustained 
her  until  the  day  the  great  theme  should  whisper  itself! 

"  The  thing  which  keeps  Polly  afloat,"  Ernestine  had 
declared,  "  is  that  she  is  glad  for  every  one  else  who 
wins  out  —  it  has  made  her  so  sunny  hearted  she  just 
can't  go  under." 

Polly  approached  Thurley  with  open  arms,  saying  in 
her  crisp  fashion,  "  Bliss  tells  me  you  have  never  known 
father,  mother  nor  telephone  number  and  we  can  baby 
you  all  we  like,"  bending  down  unexpectedly  to  kiss 
her. 

Before  Thurley  answered,  Polly  whirled  around  to  de- 
mand, "  Listen,  every  one,  I've  come  to  the  conclusion 
we  should  all  be  thankful  for  anything  that  makes  cold 
chills  go  up  and  down  our  spines,"  dashing  into  some 
nonsensical  adventure  told  in  her  own  fashion. 

Hobart  waited  until  the  conclusion,   after  which  he 

143 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

offered  Thurley  his  arm  and  led  the  way  into  the  dining 
room  which  proved  to  be  an  enclosed  sort  of  terrace 
with  wonderfully  imitated  flowering  shrubs,  green  striped 
awnings,  a  lily  pool  fountain  giving  a  touch  of  the  unreal 
and  illusive.  Wicker  chairs,  artificial  ascension  lilies  and 
Canterbury  bells  were  in  profusion.  The  room  was 
called  the  "  village  green,"  Caleb  whispered  to  Thurley, 
and  on  nights  when  the  thermometer  skidded  below  zero, 
Hobart  delighted  to  come  into  this  exquisite  little  oasis 
of  almost  tropical  heat  and  make  his  guests  forget  the 
sleet  and  frost  without.  Two  chairs  were  tipped  against 
their  well  appointed  places,  one  for  Mark  Wirth,  the 
dancer,  and  one  for  Sam  Sparling,  the  actor,  Thurley 
learned,  a  family  custom  always  observed. 

As  they  sat  about  the  table,  Thurley  between  Polly 
and  Collin,  Polly  remarked  naively: 

"  I'm  trying  to  get  Collin  to  tell  me  why  women  who 
dabble  in  water  colors  always  paint  '  Pharaoh's  Horses  ' 
with  chests  like  inflated,  tuppenny  balloons?" 

"  How  can  a  mere  painter  of  fried  egg  sunsets  an- 
swer?" he  retorted.  "Oh,  I  say,  about  Daphne's  wed- 
ding present  —  Polly  doesn't  want  to  send  it." 

At  which  a  chorus  of  "  why  nots  "  issued,  to  which 
Polly  said  forcibly: 

"  Because  it  will  remind  her  of  what  she  can  never 
have.  Pick  out  some  nice,  golden  oak  and  green  plush 
article  which  will  do  credit  to  the  establishment  of  one 
Oscar  Human,  plumber  at  large.  It  will  be  salve  on  a 
throbbing  wound.  Daphne  will  think,  bless  her  amateur- 
ish old  heart,  that  it  is  our  choice  and  being  typical  of  the 
golden  oak  and  green  plush  atmosphere  which  must  al- 
ways be  hers,  she'll  still  feel  one  of  us!  But  that  green 
metal  desk  set  with  silver  trim  —  horrors,  think  of  its 
shivering  with  loneliness  in  Oscar's  back  parlor!  " 

144 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Right,"  Hobart  added,  "I'll  get  the  picture  of  a 
wistful  tabby  cat  staring  at  oysters  fairly  shivering  in 
their  shells  and  a  battenberg  doily  underneath  —  no,  that 
would  be  too  broad  —  we'll  get  —  I  say,  here's  our  in- 
fant fresh  from  Birge's  Corners  and  Birge's  Corners' 
brides  —  nearly  one  herself  if  the  truth  were  known! 
What  ho,  Thurley,  what  would  you  propose  to  give  a 
Birge's  Corners'  bride  that  would  meet  the  town's  ap- 
proval? " 

Flushing  as  she  thought  of  Lorraine's  chest  of  linens, 
the  new  house  which  was  to  cost  twenty  thousand  dollars 

—  and  then  of  Ernestine's  necklace  which  cost  that  alone 

—  Thurley,  without  hesitation,  answered,  "  Why,  a  cut 
glass  punch  bowl  with  the  silver  hooks  all  around  it  for 
the  little  glasses!  " 

"  The  infant  is  christened,"  Hobart  pronounced  after 
the  applause  ended.  "  I  nominate  a  shopping  committee 
of  Ernestine  Christian  and  Thurley  Precore." 

During  the  rest  of  the  supper  party  Thurley  remained 
a  spectator  until  Hobart  whispered  that  she  sing  for  them 
and  she  rose,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  reluctant  to 
obey. 

"  She  has  not  done  well,"  she  heard  Hobart  saying 
as  she  finished,  "  stage  fright  —  too  few  of  us  —  too 
small  a  room  —  the  opera  stage,  five  thousand  people  and 
she  would  sing  as  if  her  throat  were  copper  lined  — 
however — " 

Polly  Harris  finished  the  sentence  for  him.  "  How- 
ever, if  Ernestine  wisely  realizes  the  limitations  of  the 
pianoforte,  Thurley  Precore  will  never  have  to  realize 
the  limitations  of  her  voice." 

Caleb  took  Ernestine  and  Thurley  home  in  his  ma- 
chine, Collin  and  Polly  following  in  the  former's  road- 
ster. Being  the  infant,  Thurley  was  left  at  her  hotel  first 

145 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

of  all  with  fond  good  nights  and  quips  about  the  sand- 
man's speedy  arrival!  She  regretted  that  she  was  not 
allowed  to  whirl  about  taking  Polly  home  and  then  Collin 
and  then  Ernestine  and,  finally,  to  be  left  alone  with  this 
rich,  willful  novelist-slacker  and  have  him  tell  about  his 
world  even  as  Ernestine  had  hinted  of  hers. 

As  she  undressed,  the  memories  of  the  evening  being 
rehearsed  by  her  dramatic  self  and  shamedly  admitting 
she  had  been  a  stupid  country  lass  who  had  not  sung 
one-tenth  as  well  as  she  could,  Thurley  realized  another 
valuable  thing,  one  which  the  public  does  not  take  the 
pains  to  decipher,  that  artists,  in  order  to  be  successes, 
must,  per  se,  acquire  definite  and  almost  narrow  ways  and 
methods  of  living  such  as  dressing,  recreation  and  so  on, 
their  personalities  must  crystallize  and  become  impene- 
trable to  the  onslaught  of  the  personalities  which  they 
will  undertake  to  interpret  or  create.  Here,  in  part,  lies 
the  secret  of  fame.  Once  one  has  one's  own  self  quite 
modelled  and  secure  from  invasion,  the  tortures  of  crea- 
tion and  interpretation  become  but  the  day's  work  just  as 
the  man  with  grimy  hands  polishes  the  most  expensive 
limousine  body  and  returns  homeward  via  a  street  car. 

The  members  of  the  family  had  distinct  and  original 
personalities  —  true,  they  did  not  seem  to  be  the  com- 
plement of  their  forms  of  artistic  achievement;  Collin's 
pictures  never  reminded  one  of  Collin  nor  Ernestine's 
programs  have  many  of  her  own  favorites,  but  back  of 
their  work,  a  haven  to  temperament,  stood  these  peo- 
ple's personalities  which  carried  them  bravely  on  the 
tidal  wave  of  success.  Whether  or  not  something  else 
stood  behind  these  personalities  and  formed  the  universal 
trinity  of  expression  was  to  be  determined  later  —  when 
one  did  not  suggest  cut  glass  punch  bowls  with  hooks  as 
wedding  gifts! 

146 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

But  as  Thurley  lay  down  to  sleep,  too  excited  to  re- 
member Birge's  Corners,  she  determined  with  amusing 
worldliness  to  set  to  work  developing  her  own  personal- 
ity, to  both  pamper  and  crystallize  it,  pitting  it  against  this 
wild  rose  Thurley  who  blushed  and  who  sneezed  —  un- 
poetic  truth  —  just  when  she  should  not  1 


147 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Instead  of  the  Christmas  season  making  Thurley  home- 
sick, it  lent  a  vivacious  joy  that  caused  Ernestine  Chris- 
tian and  Polly  Harris  to  marvel  at  her  development. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  city  had  its  foothold.  She 
thought,  if  at  all,  of  the  Christmas  preparations  in  Birge's 
Corners,  with  passing  scorn. 

Thurley's  thoughts  had  been  rather  well  regulated  by 
routine  until  she  was  left  with  but  scant  time  for 
reminiscence.  No  lesson  had  been  done  away  with  but 
more  added.  She  spent  twice  as  much  time  at  Hobart's 
studio,  either  with  him  or  with  the  Bohemian  singing 
teacher  whom  she  loathed  but  who  knew  how  to  guide  her 
voice  into  unsurpassed  channels. 

Then  there  were  hateful  languages  to  conquer  and, 
if  she  disliked  the  social  secretary  or  the  gymnast  or 
the  corps  of  other  workers  who  were  making  her 
"  ready  "  to  sing  for  her  supper  on  the  opera  stage,  they 
continued  to  appear  at  regular  intervals  until  Thurley 
realized  that  Bliss  Hobart  had  had  method  in  his  mad- 
ness, for  he  had  seen  the  need  of  curbing  a  rebellious 
and  turbulent  spirit,  one  that  tired  too  quickly  of  routine 
for  its  own  good.  In  reality,  he  was  teaching  her  the 
grind,  which  most  artists  never  escape,  in  a  condensed 
and  merciful  fashion. 

Thurley  was  beginning  to  realize  even  more  of  this 
great  question  of  "  values."  In  the  old  days  at  the 
Corners  when  gray,  sullen  moods  conquered  her  sunny 
self,  she  had  been  wont  to  take  refuge  within  the  box- 

148 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

car  wagon  or  the  hilly  cemetery,  to  sob  without  reason 
or  plan  rebellions  of  which  neither  Dan  nor  Betsey  Pil- 
rig  could  have  had  the  slightest  understanding  1  Now 
she  called  a  taxi  and  drove  through  the  parks  or  out 
suburban  roads,  thinking  the  same  quality  of  thoughts 
with  different  and  widely  varied  guises  and  returning, 
as  she  had  done  from  the  box-car  wagon  or  cemetery,  light 
hearted,  dangerously  glad  for  every  one,  singing  like  a 
meadow  lark  and  insisting  on  doing  things  for  whosoever 
might  come  her  way  almost  to  the  extent  of  exaggera- 
tion. 

Formerly,  when  saddish  longings  and  presentiments 
would  sweep  over  the  wild  rose  Thurley,  she  had  tramped 
through  the  pine  woods  as  sturdily  as  a  soldier  under 
his  captain's  orders,  tramping,  tramping,  tramping  up 
through  the  amphitheater  of  hills  which  lay  outside  the 
town.  Finally,  she  would  come  upon  a  pasture  clearing 
and  here  she  would  sit,  exhausted  but  filled  with  sweet 
contentment,  at  the  "  top  of  the  world "  she  fondly 
called  it,  looking  down  at  the  little  village  which  seemed 
a  cardboard  play-town  and  dreaming  of  the  day  when 
she  should  stand  at  the  top  of  the  world  to  sing  and 
all  the  cardboard  towns  in  the  universe  should  listen  and 
applaud. 

In  New  York,  Thurley  took  another  method  when  pes- 
simism interrupted  common  sense  routine.  She  went  to 
the  piano  and  practised  until  her  throat  gave  warning 
to  cease  and  she  could  again  face  the  world  as  the  wild- 
rose-with-a-prophecy-of-the-hot-house- variety  Thurley, 
baby  of  the  great  "  family,"  an  interesting  young  god- 
dess who  seldom  voiced  an  opinion  but  who  could  sweep 
away  opinions  if  she  sang  a  ballad  (unbeknownst  to  her 
present  audience)  with  thoughts  of  Dan  or  Philena  or 
the  old  days  in  the  wagon  as  the  inspiration! 

149 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

During  those  effervescent  moods  of  abandon  which 
fairly  intoxicated  all  those  who  saw  Thurley  under  their 
spell  —  back  in  the  Corners  —  she  had  always  rushed 
down  to  the  emporium  and  coaxed  Dan  away  on  a 
frolic  —  a  picnic,  if  summer,  or  skating,  if  winter.  They 
would  sit,  these  two,  on  the  porch  of  a  deserted  lake  man- 
sion dreaming  dreams  of  a  lyric  quality  with  a  sin- 
cerity which  made  both  the  boy  and  the  girl  the  better 
for  having  dreamed  them !  Thurley  would  weave  gar- 
lands of  wild  flowers  —  Dan  gathering  them  —  and  she 
would  come  home  to  Betsey  Pilrig,  her  cheeks  like  roses 
and  her  eyes  like  stars,  singing  a  spring  song  and  causing 
Betsy  to  lapse  into  Ali  Baba's  favorite  expression, 
"  Land  sakes  and  Mrs.  Davis  —  Thurley,  be  you  from 
another  world?  " 

The  joyous  moods,  these  days,  came  very  seldom.  To 
some  degree  they  happened  when  Ernestine  told  her  that 
Hobart  was  pleased  with  her  progress  or  when  Polly 
Harris  kissed  her  and  said  she  was  a  little  sister  to  the 
great;  some  faint  imitation  of  them  was  experienced 
when  Caleb  took  her  motoring  and  told  her  his  humor- 
ous troubles  or  when  she  went  with  Miss  Clergy  and 
Hobart  to  the  first  opera  — "  Rigoletto  " —  and  saw  with 
the  grave,  conceited  eyes  of  youth  herself  outshining  the 
present  Gil  da  —  herself  standing  with  outstretched  arms 
to  acknowledge  the  applause.  The  wild  joy  was  felt 
for  half  an  instant  when  Collin  Hedley  said  he  would 
paint  the  infant  before  her  debut  —  there  would  be  no 
fun  at  all  in  painting  her  when  she  was  famous  and 
unapproachable,  waving  engagement  tablets  at  a  mere 
artist. 

Thurley  came  to  realize  clearly  the  difference  in  the 
inspiration  of  her  joy  —  the  joy  which  had  been  her 
solace  during  the  gray,  hungry  days  of  childhood.  In 

150 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Birge's  Corners  supreme  mirth  came  from  smell  of  new 
mown  hay,  with  sunshine  sparkling  all  about,  or  the 
summer  breeze  kissing  the  little  curls  at  the  delicious 
nape  of  her  white,  soft  neck  —  it  was  generated  by  the 
discovery  of  the  first  violets  or  the  exhilaration  of  a 
skating  party  with  Dan,  by  some  baby's  laughing  face  or 
Betsey's  pleased  smile  —  and  most  of  all  by  Dan's  ardor. 
Thurley  told  herself  with  almost  shamed  admission  that 
her  values  had  changed. 

But  if  Thurley  changed  quickly  during  the  winter, 
Miss  Clergy  stayed  the  same  feeble,  at  times  querulous, 
ghost  lady,  always  willing  for  Thurley  to  go  to  places 
without  her,  trusting  the  girl  as  one  would  trust  a  matron, 
content,  now  that  she  had  roused  from  her  neurotic 
lethargy,  to  lapse  into  a  semi-doze  with  a  vigilant  eye 
for  only  two  things  —  to  have  Thurley  succeed  as  a  spin- 
ster and  to  have  no  one  become  personally  acquainted 
with  her  own  withered  self  lest  memories  be  unearthed 
over  which  she  mourned  in  vain. 

So  Thurley  came  and  went  at  will  and  the  family 
became  used  to  the  fact  that  the  infant's  benefactress 
was  a  "  character."  For  that  matter  the  family  them- 
selves were  characters  with  pet  "  phobias  "  and  hobbies 
and  theories,  to  say  nothing  of  scars,  cotton-wooled  and 
well  protected  from  the  bromidic  world. 

It  was  Christmas  week  when  Thurley  experienced  a 
savage  mood  —  anger  really  the  stimulus  —  for  she  had 
bought  a  supply  of  frocks  and  hats  preparatory  to  the 
"  family's  "  Christmas  festivities  when  Ernestine  wrote 
her  a  note  from  Chicago,  where  she  was  playing  en- 
gagements, saying  that  she  would  not  be  home  until 
January  and  she  was  writing  before  Christmas  purposely 
because  she  never  had  believed  in  the  holiday  and  neither 
gave  nor  accepted  gifts;  therefore  she  wished  the  child- 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Thurley  all  good  things  and  to  work  as  hard  as  she 
could;  she  would  see  her  within  a  few  weeks. 

The  savage  mood  began  to  manifest  itself  as  Thurley 
read  the  careless  note.  Like  the  writer,  its  force  and 
decision  were  unquestionable.  Thurley  had  prepared 
gifts  for  all  members  of  the  family  in  the  same  im- 
pulsive fashion  as  for  every  one  she  had  loved  back 
at  the  Corners.  She  went  to  the  bureau  drawer  and 
opened  it  to  examine  them  —  they  seemed  garish  and 
absurd.  She  was  not  yet  at  the  topnotch  of  fame 
which  allows  one  to  do  whatsoever  one  will  and  have  it 
accepted.  If  she  had  made  her  debut  and  chosen  to 
present  Ernestine  Christian  with  one  of  those  gilded 
rolling  pins  with  a  regiment  of  hooks  which  hung  on  the 
doors  of  many  of  the  best  families  in  the  Corners,  it 
would  have  been  received  in  resigned  silence.  As  it  was, 
the  purse  she  had  chosen  for  Ernestine  was  probably 
not  at  all  what  she  would  have  liked;  Thurley  would  give 
it  to  the  room  maid  instead.  She  would  think  it  quite 
wonderful  and  carry  it  for  shopping  or  Sunday  mass ! 

She  looked  at  the  handkerchiefs  she  had  for  Polly 
Harris  —  but  Polly  would  probably  make  some  sarcastic 
squib  at  their  expense  and  never  be  seen  with  one  pro- 
truding from  her  smock  pocket.  No,  the  handkerchiefs 
would  do  for  the  social  secretary  and  the  antique  leather 
box  for  Caleb  she  would  press  upon  the  gymnast,  while 
the  book  on  art  originally  intended  for  Collin  would  be 
relegated  to  the  scrap  heap !  Thurley  laughed  aloud  as 
she  thought  of  giving  Collin  a  book  on  art  —  when  Col- 
lin, foremost  portrait  painter  in  America,  had  written 
a  book  on  art  which  was  used  as  an  authority  by  the 
younger  school  .  .  .  well,  it  had  not  been  so  very  long 
since  she  had  bought  her  gifts  at  Dan's  store  with  Dan  re- 
fusing her  money  and  had  done  them  up  in  white  tissue 

152 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

and  the  reddest  of  red  ribbon,  flying  about  like  a  good 
fairy  on  Christmas  Eve  to  leave  them  at  doorsteps! 
After  re-reading  Ernestine's  note,  Thurley  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  Christmas  was  not  for  those  afflicted  with 
exaggerated  ego  but  merely  for  those  who  held  good 
jobs. 

She  had  bought  no  present  for  Sam  Sparling  or  Mark 
Wirth,  the  latter  still  abroad,  and  as  for  Bliss  Hobart, 
her  fingers  fearfully  touched  the  carved  idol  —  a  metal 
Buddha  mounted  on  teakwood.  Why  she  had  selected 
it,  after  endless  excursions  to  endless  shops,  Thurley  did 
not  know  —  perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  never  seen 
one  in  his  office  where  there  was  everything  else  under 
the  sun  from  a  Filipino  kris  to  a  bibelot  which  had  be- 
longed to  Marie  Antoinette.  Or  perhaps  there  was 
another  reason  —  at  any  rate,  she  had  recklessly  bought 
the  idol  and  sacrificed  her  spending  money  for  a  month  to 
come,  blushing  furiously  each  time  she  planned  what  to 
write  on  the  accompanying  card. 

She  could  hardly  give  the  Buddha  to  a  bellboy  and 
she  had  purchased  black  gloves  for  Miss  Clergy,  the 
presents  for  Betsey,  Ali  Baba  and  Hopeful  being  on  their 
way. 

She  pushed  the  Buddha  back  in  the  drawer  and  went 
to  her  lesson  with  Hobart  with  a  reserved,  patronizing 
manner  which  amused  him  and  his  amusement,  in  turn, 
angered  Thurley. 

Fame  seemed  something  which  would  strangle  every- 
thing commonplace  and  joyous,  Thurley  thought,  as  she 
mechanically  did  her  exercises.  These  persons  were  so 
ultra,  so  fond  of  "  my  taste  in  dress  " — "  the  way  I  eat 
my  artichokes  " — "  the  sort  of  wall  paper  in  my  studio  " 
—  so  over  developed  and  emphasized  that  they  made 
clever,  well  bred  fun  of  the  "  pastoral  joys,"  as  Ernestine 

153 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

named  them,  all  the  while  amusingly  unconscious  of  the 
whine  of  conceit  which  crept  into  their  voices  whenever 
they  made  a  drastic  statement. 

There  ought  to  be  a  refined,  sulphitic,  fumigated  holi- 
day just  for  this  sort  of  people,  Thurley  thought.  She 
was  driving  home  and  watching  the  crowds  of  shoppers 
laden  with  packages  who  tried  to  make  their  way  across 
the  street.  They  were  goodnatured  crowds  because  they 
were  buying  something  for  some  one  else  and  she  longed 
to  leave  the  cab  and  be  one  with  them,  to  jostle  and  sway 
together  until  the  traffic  signal  was  given  and  then  to  dash 
across  to  reach  a  crosstown  car  and  to  end,  breathless, 
disordered  of  hat  and  hair  but  happy,  in  some  small  home 
where  the  packages  were  relegated  to  the  top  shelf  and  a 
recital  of  the  day's  happenings  told  to  the  master  of  the 
household  over  a  supper  of  steak,  coffee  and  baker's 
pie! 

Up  to  this  moment  Thurley  had  not  experienced  home- 
sickness, but  as  the  cab  shot  on  in  patrician  fashion  she 
began  recalling  the  fattened  turkey  they  would  have  at 
Birge's  Corners  and  the  way  Betsey  had  made  her  pud- 
ding and  Christmas  cakes  days  before,  as  well  as  the 
nights  Dan  had  called  for  her  to  have  her  aid  in  trim- 
ming the  store  windows  with  make-believe  fireplaces 
and  tinsel  stars;  the  way  the  boys  and  girls  went  into 
the  woods  for  the  smallest  fir  trees  and  decorated  the 
church  until  it  was  "  a  bower  of  beauty,"  according  to 
the  Gazette  report;  how  the  choir  would  practise  the 
Christmas  anthem  and  carols  night  after  night  with  Thur- 
ley directing,  playing  the  organ  and  singing.  On  Christ- 
mas morning  would  come  the  service  with  Thurley,  the 
envy  of  every  girl  in  town  because  of  her  new  pin  or 
bracelet  or  chain  which  Dan  had  given  her,  singing  "  The 
Birthday  of  a  King "  in  a  glorious,  clear  voice  —  like 

154 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

some  one  permitted  to  sing  down  from  the  clouds  for  an 
instant! 

Oh,  it  was  good  to  remember  —  good?  —  Thurley's 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  told  the  man  to  drive  on  un- 
til she  ordered  him  to  turn  back  to  her  hotel.  She 
laughed  as  she  snuggled  down  in  the  machine,  drawing 
a  robe  over  her  lap  and  prepared  to  dream-remember. 
As  she  did  so,  she  recalled  Caleb  Patmore's  saying  to 
Ernestine  one  afternoon  at  tea, 

"  I'm  going  into  the  ooze  again."  To  which  Ernestine 
answered, 

"Jolly  lark,  isn't  it?  Don't  make  it  a  habit  or  you 
may  slip  into  it  altogether  —  then  you  would  be  help- 
less." 

"  Take  the  advice  for  yourself,"  he  had  retorted,  to 
which  she  nodded  her  head  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 
When  Thurley  asked  her  about  it,  Ernestine  said  with  a 
trace  of  confusion, 

"  You  child,  you're  not  ready  for  any  '  ooze  '  game 
yet;  you  are  still  in  it  in  actuality  to  an  extent.  When 
you  begin  to  want  to  go  to  nerve  specialists  and  are  not 
hungry  enough  for  bread  and  butter  but  keen  on  frosted 
cake  as  it  were,  knowing  nothing  but  work  and  want- 
ing to  know  nothing  but  play,  when  your  day's  program 
—  not  the  one  written  by  your  press  agent  —  is  as  im- 
possible as  a  typewritten  love  letter,  you'll  find  the  ooze. 
I'll  show  you  how  to  find  it." 

But  Thurley  had  insisted,  like  a  true  Pandora,  upon 
knowing  and  so  Ernestine  goodnaturedly  tried  to  ex- 
plain. 

"  My  nice  creature,  when  people  are  so  famous  they 
experience  loneliness  because  they  are  quite  shut  away 
from  those  who  are  quite  famous,  they  cannot  exist  on 
work  no  matter  in  what  line  their  talent  may  be  —  nor 

155 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

on  lollipop  praise  of  the  public  nor  carping  criticisms. 
They  must  have  an  antidote.  Yet  they  cannot  sacrifice 
their  relentless  system  of  life  which  takes  a  first  mortgage 
on  their  time  and  energy.  So  while  you  hear  of  us  as 
having  huge  poultry  farms  and  see  our  pictures  taken  in 
the  act  of  garroting  a  red  pepper  from  Madame  So  and 
So's  truck  farm  where  she  spends  most  of  her  time  when 
not  —  and  so  on,  or  read  an  interview  in  which  one  of 
us  declares  a  submarine  boat  to  be  our  favorite  siesta 
spot,  please  know  it  is  not  true.  But  throughout  the 
years  of  endless  work  and  surrender  of  the  mystical  force 
constituting  genius,  we  have  just  to  be  children  —  and 
pretend.  There,  that  is  the  whole  thing  in  a  nutshell 
—  pretend  just  as  children  fancy  themselves  policemen, 
motormen,  kings  and  fairy  queens  all  the  while  swallow- 
ing the  mortification  of  domineering  nurses  and  bibs. 
We  live  with  our  memories,  many  times,  if  they  are 
pleasant.  How  rich  a  confession  Caleb  could  wring  out 
of  us,  if  he  were  not  so  sluggish !  We  dream-play,  fancy, 
create  a  world  within  a  world.  Bliss  Hobart  in  a  fit  of 
cynicism  —  I  noticed  he  began  taking  pepsin  the  following 
week  —  named  it  '  the  ooze  ' —  and  it  became  our  trade 
name  for  it.  The  ooze,  the  unreal,  really  unimportant 
and  absurd,  yet  ready  to  be  lived  with  and  yet  to  vanish, 
the  state  of  mind  which  we  people  as  we  wish  and  live 
house-and-garden  lives  for  as  much  as  half  an  hour  at 
a  time !  You  may  not  give  this  credence,  but  it  is  quite  as 
real  as  my  piano  or  Collin's  brush.  And  heaven  grant 
you  won't  need  the  ooze,  Thurley,  for  a  little !  Still,  it  is 
a  lovely,  plastic  state  of  thought  —  like  those  lavender 
and  gold  butterflies  you  find  lingering  in  the  corners  of 
Whistler's  paintings  or  that  flutter  in  the  margins  of 
special  editions." 

"  Why  don't  you  have  the  —  the  ooze  be  real  —  live 

156 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

a  fifty-fifty  sort  of  existence?  "  Thurley  borrowed  Dan's 
slang. 

"  It  would  be  like  blending  chillblains  and  poetry  or 
mosquitoes  and  mahogany  —  impossible  !  That  is  why 
they  say  all  genius  is  a  trifle  mad.  Remember,  the  ooze 
is  your  best  friend!  Why,  after  a  fatiguing  concert,  I've 
played  I  was  the  bustling,  happy  mother  of  half  a  dozen 
youngsters,  the  type  of  American  housewife  who  does 
all  her  work  except  the  washing  and  whose  hands  grow 
red  and  hardened  yet  are  sparkling  with  diamonds,  whose 
children  grow  up  and  adore  her  —  I've  lived  in  a  red 
brick  house  with  those  diamond-shaped  panes  at  the  front 
windows  and  dotted  muslin  curtains  criss-crossed  —  you 
know  —  and  I've  entertained  bridge  clubs  galore,  making 
mayonnaise  and  maple  parfait  myself  while  the  baby 
was  napping — "  and  when  Thurley  had  clamored  for  a 
clearer  understanding,  Ernestine  ordered  her  off  to  study 
her  French  and  forget  she  shared  the  secret  of  the 
"  ooze." 

"  What  is  Bliss  Hobart's  ooze?  "  she  had  insisted. 

"  I  think  he  plays  he  runs  an  ice  cream  soda  fountain  in 
Harlem,"  Ernestine  had  answered  to  be  rid  of  her.  At 
the  time  Thurley  had  seriously  questioned  Ernestine's 
sanity. 

But  this  snowy  December  night  the  ooze  became  very 
real  to  her  and,  unknowingly,  Thurley  passed  a  telling 
boundary  line  of  progress.  She  dreamed  on  of  Birge's 
Corners  —  she  saw  the  Christmas  entertainment  taking 
place.  There  was  the  awful  make-believe  chimney  which 
the  Sunday-school  superintendent,  invariably  the  thin- 
nest man  in  town,  was  to  descend,  fragments  of  his  cot- 
ton beard  floating  about  the  stage  after  the  feat  was  ac- 
complished. She  could  see  the  primary  class  waving  the 
red  satin  banner  symbolic  of  the  best  attendance  — 

157 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

strange,  how  excellent  is  the  Sunday-school  attendance 
during  holiday  season  —  and  then  marching  on  the  stage 
to  sing  in  a  series  of  mouse-like  squeaks,  "  Jolly  Old 
Saint  Nicholas  "  while  their  teacher,  in  love  with  Jo 
Drummer,  the  Santa  Claus,  stood  below  to  direct  them 
and  wonder  if  Jo  was  properly  impressed  with  her  ma- 
ternal devotion  and  her  new  hat. 

Then  the  minister  "  delivered  "  a  few  remarks  and 
Lorraine  came  on  the  stage  to  hand  out  tarlatan  stockings 
with  nuts  and  hard  candies  which  accompanied  the  gifts. 
After  laborious  recitations  by  tortured  boys  with  slicked- 
back  hair  and  freckles  pale  because  of  the  excitement,  the 
town  elocutionist  let  loose  with  "  How  They  Brought 
the  Good  News  from  Aix  to  Ghent  "  or  "  The  Wreck 
of  the  Hesperus  "  and  about  at  this  juncture  the  stage 
chimney  would  crash  down  and  reveal  the  truth  —  it  was 
nothing  but  a  lot  of  brick-paper  pasted  on  Dan  Birge's 
store  boxes ! 

Well,  it  was  fun  to  play  that  one  was  taking  part  in 
the  entertainment  and  showing  off  a  little,  as  every  one 
else  did,  including  the  minister,  to  smell,  in  imagination, 
the  pines  and  evergreens  and  to  visualize  Dan  Birge,  the 
handsomest  lad  in  the  assemblage,  winking  at  her  during 
the  minister's  address ! 

The  river  wind  swept  in  through  the  lowered  taxicab 
window-pane  and  Thurley  leaned  forward  to  say, 
"  Home,  please  " —  the  ooze  drifting  obediently  away. 
She  was  Thurley  Precore,  the  Thurley  with  rejected 
Christmas  gifts  and  the  prospect  of  a  hotel  holiday  din- 
ner in  company  with  Miss  Clergy  who  would  nap  most 
of  the  day! 

Yet  the  ooze  had  stimulated  Thurley;  she  could  al- 
ways go  slipping  back  to  the  Corners  to  relive  the  homey 
things  which  had  made  her  a  wild  rose.  It  appeared 

158 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

to  be  tremendously  comforting  and  she  went  a  step  fur- 
ther in  self-analysis,  telling  herself,  as  she  was  going 
up  to  the  hotel  rooms,  that  the  thing  which  made  great 
people  lapse  into  the  ooze  for  tangled  up  nerves  and 
snarly  frames  of  mind  was  the  thing  which  made  sar- 
castic, aloof  Ernestine  Christian  play  a  gypsy  dance 
with  the  wild  fire  its  author  intended  it  to  have  or  gave 
Caleb  the  power  to  invent  an  entirely  new  setting  for 
the  same  old,  "  Will  you  love  me?  "  or  told  Collin  how  to 
forget  the  ingrowing  chin  of  his  subject  and  make  it 
strong  and  masterful  still  looking  like  the  ingrowing 
original  —  here,  Thurley  took  the  lesson  home  for  she, 
too,  was  crystallizing  her  personality.  It  gave  Thurley 
the  ability  to  feel  that  she  was  Juliet  in  the  tomb  or 
Rosina  having  that  delightful  music  lesson  with  her  mas- 
querading lover,  it  was  temperament,  psychic  masquerad- 
ing !  There,  that  was  a  much  nicer  name  than  the  ooze 
and  when  she  was  famous  enough  she  would  tell  Bliss 
Hobart  so  and  make  him  admit  his  clumsiness  of  nomen- 
clature. 

After  which  exhilaration  came  the  hint  of  a  warning  — 
Miss  Clergy's  years  of  uselessness  were  the  result  of  just 
such  "  psychic  masquerading  "  fed  by  revenge  and  dis- 
appointment. After  all,  was  this  ooze  merely  confined 
to  the  great?  Would  they  not  have  to  yield  a  point  and 
admit  they  had  much  in  common  with  their  neighbors? 


159 


CHAPTER  XIV 

When  she  came  into  the  apartment  sitting-room,  she 
found  Polly  Harris  in  her  shabby  brown  trappings  and 
another  member  of  the  family  whom  Polly  had  dutifully 
brought  to  call. 

u  It's  Sam  Sparling,"  Polly  announced  in  boyish  fash- 
ion. "  Have  you  seen  by  the  papers  he's  to  open  here 
Christmas  afternoon?  This  is  Bliss  Hobart's  prize," 
waving  her  hand  in  Thurley's  direction.  "  Now  beware 
of  Sam  because  even  duchesses  fall  in  love  with  him  and 
he  has  trunks  full  of  yellowed  mash  notes  — " 

Sam  interrupted  by  frowning  at  Polly  and  saying, 
"  Come  over  here,  my  dear,  don't  be  afraid.  I'm  too 
busy  to  get  up  a  new  affair  before  New  Year's." 

He  had  the  cultured,  pleasant  voice  of  a  well-bred 
Englishman  and  Thurley  could  picture  his  irresistible 
methods  of  love-making,  although  he  was  far  older  than 
she  fancied  and  his  mouth  framed  by  ironical  furrows. 
He  had  really  white  hair  combed  into  a  brisk  pompa- 
dour, bright  eyes  like  a  young  pointer's  and  he  dressed  in 
noticeable  fashion,  with  a  fine  black  and  white  check 
suit  with  exaggerated  flares,  patent  leather  boots  and 
silk  shirt  and  tie  matching  the  suit  in  pattern.  Still,  it 
was  no  wonder  Sam  Sparling  could  "  get  across  "  with 
Romeo  one  day  and  the  next  week  be  giving  out  an  in- 
terview in  which  he  was  quoted  as  remembering  the  day 
Disraeli  said  to  him  — ! 

"  What  a  dear  she  is !  "  he  remarked  to  Polly.  He 
had  the  habit  of  talking  about  a  person  in  front  of  that 
person  when  he  wished  to  be  complimentary  or  to  find 

1 60 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

fault.  "  A  flapper  in  a  thousand,"  putting  on  gold  pince- 
nez  with  the  foreign  straight-across  nose-piece  which 
Thurley  had  never  seen.  u  By  Jove,  is  Bliss  sure  she's 
a  singer?  I  could  make  an  actress  out  of  that  girl." 

"  You've  not  heard  her  sing,"  Polly  capered  about. 
"  When  she  sings,  I  am  inspired  to  tear  up  all  the  opera 
scores  I've  fancied  were  any  good  and  begin  again.  Be- 
cause Thurley  has  promised  me  to  sing  the  title  role 
in  my  opera  —  now  haven't  you?  "  Polly's  little  face  was 
distressingly  in  earnest. 

Sam  shook  his  head  and  began  talking  to  Thurley 
about  Polly.  "She  is  irrepressible,  isn't  she?  Fancies 
she  can  out-Wagner  Wagner  —  when  she  is  just  bound 
to  end  up  by  writing  songs  for  a  ballad  singer  —  one 
dressed  in  sheer  muslin  with  velvet  wrist  bows  —  posses- 
sing a  thin,  carefully  tutored  soprano  that  will  always 
trill  certain  words." 

Polly  picked  up  a  cushion  and  unceremoniously  pitched 
it  towards  him.  It  fell  between  Thurley  and  Sam  and 
Sam  knelt  gracefully  upon  it,  adding,  "  Would  that  L 
could  have  one  of  these  when  I'm  trying  to  look  romantic 
in  this  position  before  a  matinee  of  school  girls  —  ugh, 
the  old  bones  do  make  a  howl  if  I  use  them  carelessly! 
Thurley,  don't  mind  us  I  You  see  I'm  one  of  those  old- 
young  boys  that  just  stay  old-young  to  the  finish  —  al- 
ways wearing  a  gardenia  in  their  buttonhole  and  their 
hat  tilted  rakishly  over  the  left  eye.  Some  day  I'll  just 
go  to  sleep  and  I'll  be  toted  to  the  Little  Church  Around 
the  Corner  with  a  last  gardenia  in  my  buttonhole  and  I 
hope  some  friend  of  mine  will  protest  against  that  awful 
firebell  embellished  funeral  march.  At  least  I'm  en- 
titled to  have  the  Faust  waltz  played  —  I  always  have 
my  greatest  luck  with  stage  proposals  when  that  is  softly 
heard  as  coming  from  the  supposed  supper  room  of  a 

161 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

hunt  ball  —  and  a  bill  poster  without  saying,  '  The  End 
of  an  Old  Beau!  '  After  it  is  all  over,  I  hope  they'll 
say,  '  Well,  Sam  never  grew  old  while  he  was  among 
us  —  let's  hope  he  won't  start  the  habit  now  wherever 
he's  blown  off  to !  '  " 

He  jumped  up  as  he  finished,  holding  out  his  hand,  and 
Thurley  took  it  shyly. 

"  Don't  mind  our  nonsense  —  she's  quite  timid,  isn't 
she  ?  Reminds  me  of  the  way  my  leading  ladies  act  when 
on  the  stage  and  when  off  they  rage  like  a  stable  boy 
if  some  one  happens  to  cross  their  notions."  He  studied 
her  a  moment  longer  and  remarked,  "  She  is  pretty  —  I 
can't  find  a  single  flaw." 

Thurley  was  pretty  that  afternoon;  perhaps  the  ooze 
had  lent  her  the  vivid  coloring  or  it  was  her  bright  red 
coat  with  the  great  silver  buttons  and  the  ermine  tam 
slanting  down  and  showing  her  dark  hair. 

"  I'm  stupid,"  she  began,  "  because  I've  been  working 
so  hard." 

Sam  settled  himself  on  a  sofa  to  take  in  the  sur- 
roundings. Polly  was  watching  something  out  of  the 
window  so  Thurley  took  opportunity  to  remove  her 
wraps  and  come  to  sit  sedately  beside  the  famous  old 
man. 

"  But  I'm  not  really  timid,"  she  supplemented  naively, 
at  which  he  turned  about  crying  bravo,  and  threatening 
Hobart  with  losing  his  prima  donna  in  order  that  she 
become  Sam  Sparling's  leading  lady. 

"  She's  taking  inventory  of  my  wrinkles,  Polly,"  he 
complained,  "  and  my  white  hair  and  the  wretched  old 
hump  o'  years  that  has  fastened  itself  on  my  back. 
Bring  her  to  the  Christmas  matinee  and  let  her  see  me 
in  lavender-striped  trousers  and  cutaway  coat,  the  mis- 
understood young  man  turned  from  his  father's  mansion, 

162 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

returning  in  the  last  act  to  his  steam  yacht  and  his  sec- 
ond best  Rolls  Royce  —  let  her  have  a  go  at  me  and 
come  behind  to  have  tea  afterwards,"  he  put  his  hand 
down  and  covered  Thurley's  —  a  thin,  tired  hand  with 
prominent,  blue  veins  and  a  handsome  ring  of  sapphires 
on  the  little  finger. 

"  Haven't  you  a  good  sort  of  leading  woman?  "  asked 
Polly. 

"  No,  the  only  real  bond  between  us  is  a  mutual  love 
of  Roquefort  salad  dressing,"  he  sighed.  "  Her  idea  of 
art  is  to  be  undressed  quite  halfway  down  her  back  and 
to  fall  on  my  neck  in  limp  giggles." 

"Why  do  you  have  her  then?"  Thurley  asked  seri- 
ously. 

"  Youth,  my  child  —  she  is  a  lovely,  young  thing,  pink 
and  white,  straight,  slim,  very  good  to  gaze  upon  —  and 
she  knows  it.  She  can  wear  a  wrap  consisting  of  four 
flounces  of  purple  chiffon  and  a  strip  of  rose  satin  and 
make  the  audience  stare  at  her  impudent,  untalented  little 
self  while  they  listen  to  my  lines!  The  combination 
lets  my  wrinkles,  humped  back  and  cantankerous  joints 
slip  by  unheeded.  -  That  is  a  penalty  we  pay  for  growing 
old.  Never  mind,  Thurley,  you've  years  in  which  to 
revel  in  having  both  talent  and  youth  —  divine  combina- 
tion !  "  Sam's  bright  eyes  grew  moody,  he  was  remem- 
bering, as  Thurley  rightly  guessed,  the  wonderful,  golden 
years  in  London  when  he  was  Romeo  in  appearance  as 
in  voice  and  passion,  when  he  was  dark  eyed,  melancholy 
young  Hamlet  and  the  critics  gently  insinuated  that  as 
King  Lear  he  was  a  trifle  youngish  although  his  makeup 
was  superb !  Those  were  the  years  when  people  loved 
his  Shakespeare  because  his  youth  illumined  it  and  he 
passed  by  with  proper  scorn  the  smart  comedies  requir- 
ing a  morning  garden  backdrop,  a  duel  in  the  library  and 

163 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

leading  ladies  who  were  possessed  of  more  dimples  than 
brains. 

"  Why  don't  you  play  old  roles?  "  Thurley  demanded 
innocently,  Polly  smothering  a  giggle. 

"  She  doesn't  appreciate  my  romantic  little  heart  and 
notions,  does  she?  Let  her  see  me  a  swashbuckling  hero 
in  hip  boots  and  a  green  plumed  bonnet  while  my  black 
charger  is  led  across  the  stage  by  bribes  of  sugar  —  then 
she'll  understand." 

"  No,  she  can't  understand,  Sam  dear,  until  she  has 
reached  the  matronly  age  and  still  wants  to  do  Juliet  and 
Senta  and  managers  try  to  show  her  the  error  of  her 
ways  —  and  figure !  " 

Thurley  looked  up  at  her  new  friend  to  wonder  what 
form  the  ooze  took  with  him.  But  he  goodnaturedly 
patted  her  cheek,  saying  much  to  her  relief: 

"  I  see  you  are  human  and  not  going  to  ask  me  to  re- 
cite '  Gunga  Din.'  I  return  the  compliment  by  not  de- 
manding that  you  tear  off  Tosti's  '  Good-by.'  I  only  ran 
in  to  welcome  you  to  our  circle  and  to  tell  you,  as  senior 
member,  a  few  facts  about  the  others.  They  will  tell 
you  about  me  fast  enough  — " 

"  Never  happy  unless  he  has  a  breach  of  promise  suit 
waiting  for  him  in  the  morning's  mail,"  promptly  sup- 
plemented Polly.  "  Always  has  it  rumored  he  is  to 
marry  a  prominent  whiskey  dealer's  widow  —  sells  his 
mash  notes  per  pound  to  Caleb,  owns  a  hothouse  of 
gardenias  and  has  them  shipped  all  over  the  map  —  at 
heart  a  flinty  old  bachelor  warrior —  a  splendid,  precious, 
cross  pal  —  a  jewel  of  an  actor  who  makes  you  laugh 
and  cry  as  easily  as  you  breathe." 

"  There  is  a  young  woman,"  said  Sam  calmly,  pointing 
an  accusing  finger,  "  who  will  never  write  grand  opera  — 
never!  Watch  how  pale  she  grows.  But  she  will  do 

164 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

something  heroic,  has  all  the  salamander  qualities  with 
none  of  their  viciousness.  Would  snatch  a  funeral  wreath 
right  off  a  door  to  make  a  present  to  some  one  she  loved, 
very  whippy  temperament,  believes  that  bothering  over 
one's  soul  is  an  emotional  luxury,  must  have  had  an  an- 
tique little  romance  back  somewhere.  Where  did  you 
come  from,  Polly,  anyhow?  Sort  of  neighborhood,  I 
fancy,  where  the  prevailing  fashion  was  to  have  your 
great-aunt's  deceased  poodles  stuffed  and  mounted  to  pre- 
side over  dark,  chilly  parlors.  .  .  .  Of  course,  Polly 
jumped  the  stockade  and  landed  among  us  —  a  forlorn 
child  with  squeaky  shoes,  as  I  remember  her.  She's  as 
proud  as  Punch  and  stubborn  as  a  bull  terrier,  so  we  let 
her  starve  knowing  that  sometime  or  other  she  is  going  to 
bump  smack  into  Fame  and  he'll  never  let  go  of  her. 
But  not  grand  opera,  Polly  girl." 

"  I  shall  stay  in  New  York,"  Polly  announced,  fasten- 
ing her  coat,  "  and  I  shall  write  a  grand  opera  in  which 
Thurley  shall  sing.  You  will  all  have  to  beg  my  par- 
don." Her  brown  eyes  showed  the  hurt  in  them  and  Sam 
Sparling  began  helping  her  with  refractory  buttons  of 
her  wrap. 

"  I'll  have  my  apology  engraved  on  a  gold  scroll  and 
you  can  use  it  for  a  dinner  gong  —  on  the  gong  handle 
will  be  a  bas  relief  of  myself  —  gardenia  and  all.  So 
you  can  beat  me  up  thrice  a  day." 

Thurley  was  laughing;  she  wondered  if  Miss  Clergy 
had  napped  during  the  turmoil.  "  Don't  go,"  she 
begged.  "  Please  stay  a  long  time." 

"  We  can't,,  we've  a  raft  of  calls.  I  always  take  Polly 
because  she  can  break  away  so  neatly.  I'm  the  sort  that 
sits  and  sits,  ending  by  halfway  swallowing  my  cane 
handle  and  getting  nowhere  in  particular." 

"  Will  we  really  go  to  the  matinee?  "  she  asked  Polly. 

165 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Of  course.  I'll  call  for  you  —  and  tea  in  Sam's 
dressing  room.  Oh,  Thurley,  you  haven't  begun  to  real- 
ize New  York  as  yet  —  not  Bliss's  New  York,  but  your 
New  York  and  mine  and  Sam's,  too." 

"  Why  do  you  love  it  so?  "  asked  Thurley. 

Polly  leaned  her  two  by  four  self  against  a  chair  as 
she  answered,  "  Oh,  because  —  when  I  walk  down  the 
Avenue  sunny  mornings  and  see  ragamuffins  sharing  an 
ice  cream  cone  and  visiting  British  peeresses  with  their 
fresh  faces  and  dowdy  clothes  vying  with  our  American 
heiresses  with  their  smart  creations  and  hunks  of  black 
pearls,  when  I  come  upon  nice,  happy  boys  and  girls  from 
up  state  or  clever  Middle  West  men  here  on  important 
commissions  and  bronzed  cowpunchers  and  trim  naval 
officers,  to  say  nothing  of  portly  men  of  finance  bowling 
along  —  I'm  New  York  mad.  Besides,  when  I  have 
to  watch  the  traffic  cops  and  white  baby  prams  becoming 
friendly,  to  gaze  at  a  window  of  caramels,  mountains  of 
them,  and  right  next  to  it  to  gaze  at  a  window  of  paint- 
ings on  silk  guarded  by  the  Pinkertons,  when  I  have  to 
stop  to  watch  the  man  in  Childs'  turn  flapjacks  and  know 
that  inside  Sherry's  sit  the  prettiest,  best  dressed,  quite 
the  most  decent  men  and  women  in  the  world  nibbling  at 
tomato  surprise  and  whispering  as  to  how  many  apart- 
ment houses  the  waiters  own,  when  I  see  Pekinese  span- 
iels airing  their  new  jewelry  and  mongrels  scrapping 
over  a  bone,  when  I  can  go  to  a  ten-cent  movie  or  sit 
in  a  box  at  the  opera  and  wear  Ernestine  Christian's 
adorable  brown  velvet  dress,  when  I  happen  upon 
dainty  brides  buying  chintz  remnants  at  Wanamaker's, 
spotting  burglars  chatting  over  their  prospects  at  the 
Five  Points  a  few  moments  later  —  and  when  I  can  ride 
home  sardine  fashion  in  a  subway  express  or  take  a  bat- 
tered hansom  what  'as  seen  better  days,  pin  a  bunch  of 

166 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

florist's  seconds  to  my  chest  and  drift  down  towards 
Washington  Square  or,  once  in  a  while,  be  picked  up 
by  Caleb  or  Collin  or  Ernestine  and  be  glided  home  in 
a  motor  —  well  —  I  love  New  York,"  she  paused  out  of 
breath. 

Sam  bent  and  kissed  her.     "  Marry  me,"  he  demanded. 

Thurley  was  noticeably  embarrassed. 

Polly  burst  out  laughing.  "  That's  Sam's  remedy  for 
all  ills,  Thurley.  When  Ernestine  had  to  move  out  of 
her  old  apartment,  Sam  was  engaged  to  her  until  she  was 
satisfactorily  settled  in  her  new  one.  It  bucked  her  up 
no  end." 

Thurley  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  afraid  I've  not  come 
on  enough  really  to  entertain  you  —  do  call  a  year  from 
now." 

Sam  laid  his  tired  hand  on  her  head  in  mock  solemnity. 
"  Don't  let  Hobart  cheat  you  of  what  you  deserve  — 
remember,  every  woman  has  the  right  to  at  least  one 
trousseau !  "  After  which  they  left,  Polly  calling  back 
something  as  to  the  time  of  their  meeting  on  Christmas 
afternoon. 

Thurley  stole  to  Miss  Clergy's  door  but  the  little 
ghost  lady  was  fast  asleep. 

"  Every  woman  has  the  right  to  at  least  one  trous- 
seau,"—  she  wished  he  had  not  said  it.  She  did  not  want 
even  deep-down,  hidden  regrets.  .  .  .  French  exercises, 
Italian  opera  scores,  singing  lessons,  English  reading  se- 
lections, dancing,  fencing,  horseback,  social  etiquette, 
makeup,  costuming,  stage  directions  —  pretend,  pretend, 
pretend  things  .  .  .  and  they  were  trimming  the  church 
at  the  Corners  —  Dan  and  Lorraine  this  year,  Lorraine 
with  her  ring  .  .  .  What  strange  people,  at  odds  with 
each  other  and  their  own  selves  —  what  queer,  detached 
lives  —  what  remarkable  theories,  fantastically  ex- 

167 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

pressed !  where  was  the  saneness  of  it,  the  rhythm  — 
that  was  it  —  the  rhythm?  Would  she  experience  it  and 
be  satisfied  after  she  had  made  her  bow  to  the  public? 
Could  the  ooze  always  answer  the  requirements  of  her 
savage  young  heart? 

After  the  Christmas  matinee,  when  Thurley  with  eyes 
as  large  as  saucers,  so  Polly  reported,  had  watched  Sam 
play  a  difficult  role  in  superb  fashion  and  had  taken  tea 
with  him  in  his  dressing  room,  she  returned  alone  to 
the  hotel. 

Polly  was  due  at  a  Greenwich  Village  affair,  Caleb  was 
with  Collin  in  the  country,  Ernestine  in  Chicago  practis- 
ing scales,  as  her  letter  to  Thurley  would  intimate,  and 
at  Birge's  Corners  .  .  .  ah,  that  was  the  ooze,  it  was 
no  longer  real !  So  Thurley  came  into  the  dingy  sit- 
ting room  —  at  least  it  now  seemed  dingy  —  to  find  that 
Miss  Clergy  had  suffered  an  attack  of  neuralgia  and  had 
been  ordered  off  to  bed.  The  high  tea  in  Sam's  dressing- 
room  had  robbed  her  of  her  appetite,  so  she  did  not  go 
downstairs  for  dinner  but  changed  her  party  frock  for 
a  schoolgirl  blue  serge  and  stoically  settled  herself  at 
her  books.  She  promised  herself  that  after  she  had  dili- 
gently studied  she  would  go  into  the  ooze  and  celebrate 
her  real  Christmas  1 

As  she  put  her  hand  on  the  table  the  new  bracelet  Miss 
Clergy  had  given  her  that  morning  struck  the  wood  with 
a  metallic  clink.  It  was  a  handsome  thing  set  with  dia- 
monds, handsomer  than  anything  Dan  had  afforded.  But 
it  had  been  given  her  with  the  generosity  of  a  jailor  in 
lieu  of  any  one  else's  daring  to  give  her  such  an  article ! 

Thurley  began  an  irregular  verb  conjugation  in  sing- 
song fashion,  fighting  off  a  savage  mood.  The  telephone 

168 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

interrupted  her  and  half  a  second  later  she  was  saying 
in  the  gladdest  voice  she  possessed: 

"  Tell  Mr.  Hobart  to  come  right  up,"  hanging  up  the 
receiver  and  running  to  the  mirror  to  see  just  how  much 
of  a  fright  she  looked. 

She  had  no  time  to  think  of  a  change  of  costume  for  in 
he  came,  a  veritable  domestic  gentleman  muffled  in  an 
ulster,  holly  in  his  buttonhole  and  something  in  white 
tissue  paper  and  tied  with  red  ribbon. 

"  Merry  Christmas !  I  had  five  minutes'  extra  time 
and  I  thought  I'd  drop  in  to  take  the  chance  of  finding 
you.  Had  an  idea  you'd  be  in  the  doldrums,  first  Christ- 
mas out  of  the  backyard,  y'know."  Unasked,  he  slipped 
off  the  ulster  and  Thurley  saw  he  was  in  evening  dress. 
"  Thing  at  the  club,"  he  explained,  noticing  her  expres- 
sion. "  Well,  what  have  we  been  doing?  Don't  tell  me 
that  rascal  of  a  Sam  had  you  behind  for  tea." 

"  He  did."  Thurley  suddenly  found  her  old  wild-rose 
self  as  she  told  him  of  the  matinee. 

When  she  finished  he  said,  those  curious  gray  eyes  of 
his  narrowing,  "  A  good  singer  should  have  a  good  — " 
holding  out  the  white  tissue  paper  parcel. 

"  Oh,  what?  "  she  demanded.  "  It's  the  only  present 
I've  had  that  was  done  in  white  tissue  paper.  Nothing 
came  from  home  and  the  others  laugh  at  Christmas. 
Miss  Clergy  gave  me  this  bracelet  —  but  the  bill  was  in 
the  box,"  she  added  resentfully.  "  But  this  —  this  is 
direct  from  Santa  Claus." 

"  It's  a  good  mascot,"  he  informed  her  gravely.  "  Al- 
ways keep  it  to  say  little  heathen  prayers  or  curses  to 
and  tell  it  your  troubles  and  your  joys.  In  short,  treat 
it  like  a  regular  fellow." 

Thurley  scrambled  the  paper  and  ribbon  away. 

169 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Why  —  I  bought  you  almost  the  same,"  she  said  un- 
consciously. 

Hobart  laughed.  "  You  actually  bought  your  stern 
maestro  a  present?" 

Thurley  was  absorbed  in  looking  at  the  little  Buddha 
carved  from  lapis  lazuli  with  gold  for  the  features 
and  diamonds  for  eyes.  "  This  one  is  much  lovelier," 
she  said. 

"Tell  me  —  did  you  really  buy  me  a  present?"  he 
demanded. 

She  nodded. 

"Why  haven't  you  handed  it  over?" 

"  Because  —  I  bought  presents  for  every  one  —  the 
sort  of  things  you  people  laugh  at  —  but  you  seemed 
different  from  the  others  so  I  bought  you  a  Buddha 
because  I  thought  you  needed  some  one  to  tell  your  real 
secrets  to  —  and  then,  after  I  wrapped  it  up,  I  began  to 
think  you  would  not  like  it  — " 

"  Will  you  get  it  or  shall  I  send  a  court  order  for  my 
property?  " 

Thurley  vanished,  reappearing  with  the  teakwood  case. 
"  Isn't  it  odd  that  we  both  bought  the  same  thing?  " 

Hobart's  face  was  boyish  as  he  took  the  gift.  "  Why, 
Thurley,"  he  told  her,  "  I  believe  I'm  training  an  angel 
unawares." 

"  You  mean  me?  "  she  asked  humbly. 

"What  made  you  speak  of  telling  real  secrets?"  he 
stroked  the  little  idol  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  don't  know  —  only  where  do  the  real  things  go 
to  when  the  unreal  have  to  come  first  and  take  up  all 
one's  time?  " 

Hobart  started  towards  her;  he  seemed  about  to  say 
something  very  secret.  Thurley  looked  at  him  wistfully, 
every  memory  concerning  the  Corners,  her  dissatisfac- 

170 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

tions  and  rebellions  vanished.  She  assumed  a  gay,  star- 
like  mood. 

But  he  thought  better  of  it  and  became  the  polite  and 
baffling  Bliss  Hobart  with  whom  no  one  took  liberties, 
least  of  all  a  girl  protegee.  It  would  be  wiser  to  tell  the 
secrets  to  the  little  Buddha  whose  silence  was  of  golden 
quality.  Perhaps,  if  years  ago,  more  years  ago  than 
Thurley  knew,  one's  secret  things  had  not  been  used  as 
public  jokes.  .  .  . 

u  I'm  afraid  I  cannot  answer,"  he  said  brusquely. 
"  Leave  my  greetings  for  Miss  Clergy  and  don't  try  to 
wear  your  mascot  as  a  watchguard  —  happy  days,  to- 
morrow as  usual."  Patting  her  on  the  shoulder,  he  dis- 
missed himself. 

Thurley  set  the  mascot  before  her  books  and  returned 
to  grubbing.  Two  hours  later  she  glanced  up  and  the 
diamond  eyes  gave  her  a  jolly  twinkle. 

"  I  say,"  she  remarked  out  loud,  "  you  are  first 
aid  to  the  agitated !  Now  tell  me  —  didn't  he  for  just 
a  moment  treat  me  as  if  I  were  a  real  woman?  " 

So  passed  the  first  New  York  Christmas! 

The  next  day,  when  Thurley  went  for  her  lesson,  she 
had  the  pleasure  of  being  snubbed  and  scolded.  But 
passing  out  of  the  studio,  she  saw  the  little  Buddha  sit- 
ting on  his  desk  very  close  to  where  his  hand  must  reach 
each  time  he  took  up  his  pen  or  blotted  a  letter ! 


171 


CHAPTER  XV 

•Ernestine  Christian  did  not  return  to  town  until  Feb- 
ruary, having  been  induced  to  play  engagements  on  the 
Pacific  coast.  It  was  the  mid-winter  thaw  when  she  ar- 
rived. She  telephoned  Thurley  almost  immediately  and, 
to  Thurley's  delight,  asked  her  to  come  and  have  coffee 
that  afternoon  as  it  was  a  Sunday  and  lessons  were  not 
a  consideration. 

"  Sure  you  won't  come  along?  "  Thurley  asked  Miss 
Clergy,  dutifully,  as  she  made  ready. 

"  Quite  sure,  my  dear.  This  wind  would  start  every 
bone  aching  to  perdition,"  Miss  Clergy  told  her,  "  and 
do  put  on  a  prettier  dress  —  there  may  be  guests." 

Thurley  looked  at  her  proverbial  blue  serge  with  hesi- 
tation. "  Oh,  I  can't  bother  to  be  done  up  in  a  real 
creation  —  we've  such  loads  to  talk  over  and  Ernestine's 
clothes  are  the  sort  one  never  really  notices  and  yet, 
describing  them  as  detached  things,  they  are  quite  won- 
derful. Do  you  think  I  ought  to  change?"  for  it  sug- 
gested itself  to  her  that  Bliss  Hobart  might  drop  in  for 
greetings. 

"  I  should.  You  can't  be  too  particular,  Thurley. 
The  time  is  coming  when  the  world  will  want  to  know 
what  sort  of  frocks  you  wear  every  clock  stroke  of  the 
day."  Here  Miss  Clergy  yawned  and  settled  back 
among  innumerable  cushions  and  Thurley  spied  the  cover 
of  a  popular  novel  —  one  of  Caleb's,  to  make  it  the  more 
amusing  —  peeping  forth. 

"  Well,  if  I  must  —  I  must,"  she  said,  darting  into  her 

172 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

room  and  donning  a  tea-green  velour  with  wee  fur  but- 
tons up  to  the  arctic  verge  of  her  pink  ears.  She 
wrapped  a  mantle  of  green  around  herself  in  careless, 
becoming  fashion,  kissed  Miss  Clergy  somewhere  be- 
tween the  chin  and  forehead  and  left  her  to  revel  in 
Caleb's  self-starting  romance  in  which  a  homely  hero  was 
quite  the  mode. 

She  found  Ernestine  walking  about  her  salon  with 
Silver  Heels  perched  cordially  on  her  shoulder,  purring 
for  joy  at  his  mistress'  return.  Ernestine  was  busy  tell- 
ing the  maid  wherein  she  had  neglected  to  carry  out  or- 
ders and  why  the  decorators  would  be  recalled  to  make 
amends.  There  was  a  pettish  air  about  her  criticisms, 
Thurley  thought,  for  when  Thurley  came  in  with  wide 
opened  arms,  Ernestine  merely  gave  her  a  shoulder  pat, 
saying, 

"  Don't  try  to  visit  until  I've  finished  my  anvil  chorus. 
On  Caleb's  recommendation  I  had  a  firm  do  things  for 
me  —  gaze  at  the  fiasco.  It  is  terribly  disquieting  to 
leave  one's  place  as  one  likes  it  and  return  to  find  it  the 
back  parlor  of  a  flourishing  merchant!  " 

"  Oh,  but  it  doesn't  look  so !  "  Thurley  defended. 
u  That  fire  screen  is  a  joy." 

"  It  may  as  well  be  put  away,"  Ernestine  told  the  maid. 
"  There'll  be  a  charity  kettle-drum  soon  enough  and 
I'll  have  to  donate  something  for  the  raffle.  That  will 
do  nicely.  Every  one  wants  things  one  has  worn  or 
used  —  I've  a  notion  the  next  time  to  send  my  last  quar- 
ter's telephone  directory  —  I  don't  doubt  but  what  it 
would  actually  be  bid  for  .  .  .  there,  Agnes,  get  hold 
of  the  firm  early  in  the  morning  and  don't  call  me.  You 
know  what  is  wrong  and  I  cannot  personally  stand  a  bat- 
tle with  interior  decorators.  Come  inside,  Thurley;  take 
off  your  green  riding-hood  cloak  and  let  me  see  you. 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Ah,  lovely,  lovely!"  she  caressed  the  gown  as  Thurley 
would  have  wished  to  be  caressed  herself.  "  Why,  you 
have  promoted  yourself  famously  —  the  hair  is  charm- 
ing, not  a  hint  of  Birge's  Corners  left !  Nice  child,  how 
proud  we  shall  all  be  —  go  'way,  Silver  Heels,  I've  a  new 
playmate  —  shall  we  stay  in  my  room  and  pray  heaven 
no  one  interrupts  us?  I  ordered  black  coffee  and  crul- 
lers so  we  can  be  extra  wild.  Tell  me  all  you  have  seen 
and  done." 

Ernestine  threw  herself  on  a  chaise  longue  gracefully 
—  she  had  a  perfect  way  of  doing  everything.  Caleb 
had  declared  her  to  be  the  only  woman  who  could  really 
look  fetching  while  done  up  in  curl  papers !  As  she  lay 
there  in  her  negligee  of  skillfully  blended  blue  and  gray 
chiffon  without  a  hint  of  lace  to  relieve  the  sulky  loveli- 
ness of  the  colors,  Thurley  experienced  the  same  shy- 
ness she  had  that  first  day  in  Bliss  Hobart's  studio. 

"  Did  your  concerts  go  well?  "  she  asked. 

"  Do  you  want  these  cushions  piled  on  top  of  you  and 
myself  acting  as  paperweight  on  top  of  them?  "  Ernestine 
raised  herself  on  one  thin  arm.  "  Cont'muez!  Why  not 
ask  if  unknown  admirers  sent  me  red,  red  roses  or  if  I 
played  Chaminade  for  the  Benevolent  Newsboys'  Asso- 
ciation when  I  was  their  honor  guest  —  ask  if  I  climbed 
Mt.  McKinley  or  was  lost  in  Death  Valley  —  you  dis- 
appointing midge,  your  looks  belie  you  utterly." 

"What  is  the  popular  topic?"  Thurley  was  capable 
of  teasing,  too.  "  Caleb  Patmore?  " 

Ernestine's  sallow  cheeks  flushed.  She  made  a  cluck- 
ing noise  which  brought  Silver  Heels  from  under  the 
lounge.  u  I  hope  you  eat  so  many  frosted  crullers  you'll 
take  on  weight,  bringing  Bliss's  wrath  on  your  impudent 
shoulders.  I  want  to  know  about  you  —  whom  have  you 
met?  —  how  is  the  ghost-lady?  —  the  voice  of  gold  — 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

what  do  you  think  of  us  now?  Sorry  you  came?  "  She 
laughed  over  at  Thurley  in  friendly  fashion  and  the 
fagged  artist  vanished. 

So  Thurley,  while  February  slush-rain  beat  in  vain  at 
windows  and  raw  winds  mercilessly  blew,  told  Ernestine 
all  that  had  happened  from  the  time  they  said  good-by  in 
December. 

"  I  did  hate  you  when  you  wrote  so  about  Christmas. 
That  wasn't  fair.  Why  couldn't  you  have  let  me  have 
that  last  bromidic  holiday?  " 

"  My  child,  I  cannot  endure  Christmas  and  birthday 
things.  I  can  stand  Valentine's  Day  much  easier.  I 
don't  know  —  but  I'm  so  weary  playing  holiday 
matinees  and  having  the  audience  one  glitter  of  new 
watches,  bracelets  and  other  trifling  remembrances,  of 
having  their  minds  groggy  from  too  much  dinner  and 
demanding  me  to  play  carols  with  tumity-tum  tunes  while 
my  piano  must  be  holly  decorated.  Rather  prejudiced 
me.  And  birthdays  are  devil  days  since  they  remind  me 
I  never  wanted  to  be  born,  yet  some  unknown  law  of 
rhythm  would  have  it  so.  Here  I  am,  earthbound  in  a 
sallow,  fleshy  envelope  when  I'd  love  to  be  cloud  free 
to  drift  here,  there,  without  restraint,  creed,  convention 
—  or  the  greed  for  crullers,"  helping  herself  to  a  sec- 
ond. "  Perhaps  it  was  rough  on  a  new  little  beggar, 
smashing  up  her  bandbox  ideas.  Never  mind,  I  thought 
of  you  —  run  open  the  second  drawer  of  that  white  chest 
and  find  the  jeweller's  box  —  it  is  for  you.  See  if  you 
like  it." 

Thurley  obeyed,  coming  back  to  her  chair  to  examine 
the  box.  "  How  good  you  are!  "  she  said,  as  she  came 
upon  a  little  blue  leather  and  gold  faced  clock  not  much 
bigger  than  a  revenue  stamp. 

"  A   practice   clock   when   you   go    on   deadly    tours. 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Tuck  it  in  your  bag  as  a  memento  and  years  hence  you 
can  say,  '  Ernestine  Christian  —  rest  her  bones  for  they 
seldom  rested  when  I  knew  her  —  gave  it  to  me  in  my 
salad  days.'  One  can  always  use  such  trifles.  That  re- 
minds me,  I  have  a  beaver  jacket  Polly  may  be  induced  to 
accept;  write  'Polly  —  jacket'  on  that  pad  so  I'll  re- 
member. I'll  hunt  her  up  to-morrow.  Caleb  says  she 
has  been  doing  supe  work  in  the  movies;  tough  luck  for 
any  one  but  Polly.  But  I've  no  doubt  she  fancies  it  gains 
inspiration  for  her  for  the  America  opera. 

"  So !  Bliss  says  a  nice  word  occasionally  and  you 
like  Sam  Sparling  —  one  of  God's  own,  Thurley  —  now 
he  believes  in  Santa  Claus.  And  you  think  Collin  Pat- 
more's  pictures  superb?  Wait  until  you  see  his  house 

—  Parva  Sed  Apta  he  has  named  it  —  and  his  garden! 
There  is  a   fierce   rivalry  between   Collin's  garden   and 
Caleb's   and  likewise   their  houses.      Collin   dubs   his   a 
chateau  and  I  think  Caleb  claims  his  is  a   really  true 
lodge !     Funny  boys !     We'll  go  up  there  in  the  summer 
and  see  for  ourselves.     Oh,  yes,  Thurley,  tell  me  about 
Miss  Clergy!     I  want   to   ask  her  if  I   may  take  you 
abroad  this  summer;  three  months  across  would  do  won- 
ders for  you.     Bliss  mentioned  it  before  I  went  away. 
I  want  to  see  your  eyes  the  first  time  you  gaze  at  the 
Alhambra  in  the  moonlight.     We'll  give  Italy  half  our 
time,   a   few  weeks   in  Paris   and   six  days   in   London. 
You'll  return  not  knowing  yourself." 

"But  the  money?  When,  oh,  when  can  I  earn?" 
Thurley  asked  in  distress. 

"  Don't  bother  about  money;  just  let  me  tell  you  what 
to  pack  and  what  to  leave  behind.  Collin  goes  to  sketch 
near  Barcelona  and  we  may  take  the  same  steamer  over 

—  wouldn't  that  be  a  lark?     Collin  is  the  nicest  courier 
I  know,  besides  being  the  greatest  portrait  painter.     I 

176 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

suppose  he  will  give  his  next  season's  subjects  Spanish 
coloring  and  a  red  rose  just  tumbling  off  their  left  ear  a 
la  Carmen.  One  year  he  did  Russia  and  I  vow  every 
western  society  woman  he  painted  had  the  mysterious  air 
of  stilettos  concealed  in  fans  and  poisoned  cigarettes 
that  Moscow  alone  can  impart.  He'll  run  out  of  coun- 
tries by  and  by,  as  France,  Italy  and  England  are  old 
stories." 

"  Can't  he  paint  people  just  as  they  are?  " 

"  That's  the  trouble.  He  would  if  he  was  not  care- 
ful to  have  a  supply  of  '  atmosphere  '  to  shoot  into  muddy 
complexions  and  wriggling  noses  and  to  blur  softly  over 
deep-seated  moles  and  other  excess  facial  baggage.  I  am 
the  only  woman  he  ever  painted  without  thought  for  fu- 
ture commissions." 

"  Did  he  ever  paint  Mr.  Hobart?  "  she  wondered  if 
she  betrayed  a  blush. 

"  Haven't  you  seen?  But,  then,  you've  never  been  at 
Parva  Sed  Apta.  It  was  Bliss's  portrait  that  gave  Col- 
lin  his  sudden  rise.  When  you  look  at  it,  you  will  un- 
derstand." Ernestine  fell  to  telling  of  Sam  Sparling's 
early  stage  days  and  her  own  debut  when  she  actually 
had  worn  white  net  with  pearls,  following  by  a  disserta- 
tion on  Polly's  angelic  stubbornness  and  hopelessness  and 
on  how  she  planned  to  snub  Caleb  if  he  wrote  a  sequel 
to  "  Victorious  Victoria  "  and  advice  about  the  attitude 
Thurley  had  best  take  towards  her  future  associates  at 
the  opera  house. 

"Won't  we  be  terribly  intimate?"  she  asked  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  Dear,  no !  Oh,  you'll  have  pictures  taken  together 
in  loving  attitudes,  go  to  parties  and  all  that  —  send  each 
other  flowers  at  proper  times.  But  you'll  never  be  like 
the  '  family '  towards  each  other  and,  when  you  are 

177 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

older,  you  will  realize  the  singular  honor  it  has  been  to 
become  one  of  the  family  so  readily.  You  may  loathe 
the  tenor  who  sings  Romeo  to  your  Juliet  and  the  woman 
who  is  leading  contralto  may  be  a  deadly  enemy  —  but 
that  matters  nothing.  You  sing  your  role  and  leave  it 
and  your  art  personality  behind  in  your  dressing-room. 
You  will  find  that  the  others  also  have  their  own  affairs, 
interests  and  opinions.  They  are  not  keen  for  the  advent 
of  a  new,  charming  diva  of  whom  they  are  certain  to  be 
jealous  and  angry  of  success  so  swiftly,  easily  achieved. 
You  are  a  musical  phenomenon,  Thurley,  and,  as  there 
are  not  many  in  any  one  generation,  you  must  be  guided 
accordingly." 

"  Please  tell  me  how  the  '  family  '  started."  Thurley 
had  not  yet  reached  the  stage  where  talking  of  herself 
and  her  accomplishments  was  of  keen  interest. 

"  It  was  Bliss's  idea,"  Ernestine  paused  as  if  unde- 
cided how  much  to  tell.  "  He  is  a  rare  soul  —  the  jewel 
in  the  toad's  head,  we  call  him.  But  he  wears  an  armor 
of  worldly  practicability  and  cynicism;  he  must  be  very 
sure  of  one  before  he  lets  one  know  the  real  man.  .  .  . 
Some  years  ago,  when  his  opinions  were  just  beginning 
to  find  favor,  he  met  Sam  Sparling  and  they  had  a  fear- 
ful row —  terrific  —  Sam  said  Bliss  Hobart  was  all  sorts 
of  a  fool  and,  after  they  had  it  out,  they  found  that  each 
meant  the  same  thing  when  you  sifted  it  down  to  the 
makings.  So  they  were  comrades.  They  were  together 
quite  a  lot  because  Sam  had  him  put  on  plays  and  then 
Sam  went  to  London  and  Bliss  into  the  opera  and  music 
field."  Here  she  paused  again.  "  Anyway,  they  had 
really  started  the  family  —  and  when  Bliss  had  a  letter 
from  Sam  about  Collin  Hedley,  an  American  starving  in 
London,  whom  Sam  was  sending  back  to  New  York  to 
paint  Bliss's  portrait,  he  prepared  to  welcome  this  Collin 

178 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

as  a  brother,  and  so  he  did.  The  great  picture  was 
painted  and  Collin  was  made.  Now  Collin  and  Caleb 
came  from  the  same  little  Middle  West  town  and,  lo  and 
behold,  up  turns  Caleb  fresh  from  a  fifteen-dollar-a- 
week  newspaper  job  and  keen  as  mustard  for  writing 
'  big  stuff.'  Inspired  by  Bliss's  picture  and  by  Bliss  and 
the  whole  outlay  of  atmosphere  into  which  they  led  him, 
Caleb  wrote  his  first  best  seller  —  it  had  heart  in  it,  too 
—  and  although  Bliss  and  Collin  wanted  to  duck  him 
in  the  rain  barrel  for  degrading  his  talent,  they  loved  him 
for  himself  and  he  joined  them.  Then,  enter  Ernestine 
Christian !  Now  this  was  funny  —  I  was  playing  Lon- 
don concerts  then  and  I  met  Sam:  he  recited  at  a  royal 
benefit  at  which  I  played.  We  sat  out  between  the 
numbers  talking  about  '  what  I  like  to  eat '  and  '  what 
you  like  to  eat '  and  *  what  color  you  like  best '  and 
'  what  color  I  like  best '  and  so  on,  you  know,  the  usual 
procedure.  And  when  I  sailed  for  America  I  had  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  the  trio  — " 

Thurley  finished  the  confession.  "  Then  they  all  met 
and  loved  you  in  different  ways." 

"Tell  me  how?" 

"  Bliss  as  a  comrade  and  Collin  as  a  big  sister  and 
Caleb  as  a  real  man  loves  a  real  woman." 

"  You've  grown  up,  Thurley,"  was  Ernestine's  com- 
ment. "  But  I  must  tell  you  that  little  Polly  was  added 
quite  unexpectedly.  She  was  posing  as  a  sprite  for  Col- 
lin; you  know  Collin  does  children's  portraits  with  pastel 
backgrounds  of  favorite  fairy  tales,  half  indistinct  — 
very  good  idea  and  quite  the  rage.  Polly  is  an  ideal 
sprite,  brownie  or  gnome  model  and  Collin  had  run  across 
her  by  accident.  The  first  morning  she  posed  she  fainted 
dead  away  —  slam  bang  —  on  the  floor,  and  it  was  a  real 
faint  because  she  hadn't  had  a  square  meal  in  two  days, 

179 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

just  samples  of  cereals  and  Hudson  River  elixir.  They 
discovered  her  fierce  pride  and  her  tragic  ambition  and 
her  adorable  self,  so  she  has  been  our  Polly  ever 
since  — " 

"  Loving  Collin—" 

"  Loving  Collin,  woman  of  the  world,"  repeated 
Ernestine.  "  Then  Polly  blew  in  one  night  in  her 
audacious  fashion  accompanied  by  Mark  Wirth.  Now 
we  had  seen  Mark  dance  and  enjoyed  him  but  knew  him 
to  be  a  will  o'  the  wisp  person  and  Lissa  Dagmar,  who 
I  hope  stays  in  Paris  for  all  time,  had  bewitched  him  and 
we  really  don't  approve  of  that  kind  of  thing.  Mark, 
however,  was  like  the  foundling  in  a  basket,  crying  feebly 
during  the  stormy  night,  and  we  just  could  not  turn  him 
away  although  Lissa  tried  her  best  to  make  inroads  into 
our  '  family.'  She  cried  and  bribed  and  writhed  because 
she  still  remained  aloof  from  the  charmed  circle.  And 
we  kept  Mark  and  made  him  one  of  us,  scolding  him 
roundly  every  chance  we  had." 

"  And  now  I  am  the  infant,"  said  Thurley  slowly,  "  but 
why  don't  you  like  Madame  Dagmar?"  recalling  the 
purring  voice  she  had  once  heard. 

"  She  is  impossible  —  a  large  person  dressed  fantastic- 
ally in  sort  of  medieval  patterns;  she  has  Titian  hair  and 
serpent  green  eyes,  those  heavy,  white  lids  in  which 
purplish  veins  spread  in  profusion,  and  a  wretched 
voice  with  the  unexplained  phenomenon  of  being  able 
to  reach  a  tip-top  note  far  above  the  range  of  any  other 
soprano  in  the  world.  This  one  note  is  as  soft  and  clear 
as  if  it  were  heaven-sent.  It  has  made  her  a  name  and 
a  fortune,  the  one  divine  sound  coming  as  a  reward  for 
poor  technique  and  wobbly  trills.  She  tried  opera,  failed 
miserably,  and  does  concert  tours  where  people  crowd  to 
see  her  gowns  and  wait  for  that  tree-top  call.  The  rest 

1 80 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

of  the  time  she  gives  singing  lessons.  We  call  her  the 
'  Voice  Assassin/  and  Bliss  Hobart  threatens  to  appeal 
to  the  authorities  if  she  does  not  take  down  her  shingle. 
Ten  dollars  for  twenty  minutes  and  nothing  of  value  to 
the  pupil  save  seeing  and  hearing  what  is  wisest  to  avoid! 
However,  like  many  impossible  persons,  she  has  a  fol- 
lowing, a  personality  —  a  —  a  —  way  with  her.  She 
will  pet  and  coo  over  you,  if  Mark  does  not,  and  you 
had  best  be  outwardly  polite;  it  is  wisest  thus,  paying 
no  heed  to  her  since  Lissa  proceeds  on  the  principle  of 
'  what  he  thought  he  might  require,  he  went  and  took 
the  same  as  me.'  To  Lissa  playfulness  always  means 
experience,  although  the  other  fellow  may  not  know  iil 
And  then  — " 

"  Madame  Dagmar,  Mr.  Mark  Wirth,"  the  maid  an- 
nounced. 

Ernestine  sank  back  among  the  cushions,  groaning. 
"  I  cannot  be  a  low  order  of  animal  life  and  refuse  to  see 
her  —  she  has  just  returned  from  Paris,  I  presume  .  .  . 
oh,  Thurley,  help  me  up !  Say  we'll  be  in,"  she  told  the 
maid,  staggering  to  her  feet  with  an  exaggerated  gesture. 

Surpressing  a  very  genuine  giggle,  Thurley  followed 
Ernestine  into  the  drawing  room  where  they  met  an 
effusive  person  wearing  a  hat  which  expressed  all  the  best 
ideas  of  the  Wright  brothers  and  a  gown  of  shimmer- 
ing mauve  with  gaudy  peacock  embroideries. 

"  My  sweet  children,"  Lissa  began  in  her  cloying 
voice,  "  to  think  I  find  you  both  here  .  .  .  and  this  is 
Thurley?  What  a  dear!  I  know  all  about  you,  because 
Mr.  Hobart  speaks  of  no  one  else  with  the  same  en- 
thusiasm. Of  course  I  never  hope  to  be  called  in  as  a 
consulting  teacher  —  dear  no,"  here  she  gave  a  snarly 
little  laugh,  "  I'm  considered  a  real  villainness  by  cer- 
tain persons.  But  I  shall  be  fairy  godmother  anyway 

181 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

—  there  always  is  an  unasked  fairy  at  the  christening,  you 
remember !  This  is  Mark  Wirth  — "  a  sweep  of  her 
white,  jewelled  hand  intimated  the  handsome  chap  with 
burnished  gold  hair  and  eyes  as  blue  as  Thurley's.  Two 
things  about  Mark  saved  him  from  being  merely  an 
Adonis  —  his  long  forehead,  the  forehead  of  a  man  who 
often  complains  of  being  persecuted  because  of  his 
tenacity  to  prove  his  point,  and  the  astute  expression  of 
his  eyes. 

"  Sit  down,  every  one.  I  am  just  back  from  tour  my- 
self—  well,  what  are  your  hopes  and  fears?" 

Ernestine  let  Lissa  take  the  center  of  the  stage. 

"  Mark  isn't  going  on  tour,  I  can't  spare  him,"  here 
another  snarly  laugh.  Thurley  fancied  Mark  Wirth 
flushed  with  annoyance. 

"  Oh,  Mark,  when  you  have  such  bully  chances !  " 
Ernestine  protested. 

"  I  can  stay  in  town  as  well  —  do  let's  talk  of  some 
one  else,"  he  said. 

"  I  want  Mark  to  stop  Grecian  dancing,  there  is  no 
definite  future  in  it  now  debutantes  have  taken  it  up  " — 
her  artificially  shaped  eyebrows  lifting  as  a  danger  signal 
— "  and  make  a  specialty  of  ballroom  dancing  — " 

Ernestine  held  up  her  hand.  "  God  forbid,"  she  said 
reverently.  "  I  saw  Mark  dance  in  the  Harvard 
Stadium  —  please  let  him  continue  to  use  his  brains  as 
well  as  his  feet." 

'  There's  room  for  a  difference  of  opinion.  For  my- 
self, my  classes  promise  to  be  large  this  season  —  and 
I've  wonderful  frocks.  I've  reopened  the  Hotel  Par- 
ticular and  tried  to  get  Collin  or  Caleb  on  the  'phone 
but  their  men  say  they  are  not  about.  I  only  saw  Bliss 
by  accident,"  she  gave  a  side  glance  at  Thurley,  "  it  was 
then  I  learned  about  you !  " 

182 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Is  the  Hotel  Particular  as  smart  as  ever?"  Ernes- 
tine hastened  to  ask. 

"  I've  had  no  end  of  things  done  to  it.  Come  and 
see.  Which  you  never  do.  Isn't  it  strange,  Miss  Pre- 
core,  I  pay  five  calls  to  this  person's  begrudged  one?" 
and  Lissa  smiled  in  her  most  disagreeable  fashion. 

Ernestine  tried  to  smooth  over  the  accusation  by  prais- 
ing Lissa's  frock. 

"  Mark  played  rouge-et-noir  at  Monte  Carlo  and  I 
won  a  winter's  wardrobe,"  Lissa  boasted. 

Ernestine  rose  and  ordered  fresh  coffee.  She  was 
embarrassed  that  Thurley  must  meet  the  first  real  scandal 
in  her  house,  not  but  what  she  would  and  must  meet 
many  such  and  not  that  it  shocked  Ernestine  for  she  had 
always  been  indifferent  to  such  situations.  But  latent 
motherhood  pricked  through  the  armor  of  indifference. 
She  began  in  an  extremely  spirited  manner  to  talk  of  things 
to  which  the  answers  could  be  anything  but  personal. 
She  directly  engaged  Lissa  in  conversation,  leaving  Mark 
free  to  drift  over  towards  Thurley.  Within  a  few  mo- 
ments they  began  laughing  over  some  nonsense,  to  Lissa's 
annoyance,  in  the  same  spirit  with  which  Thurley  and 
Dan  had  one  time  laughed  —  at  least  two  lifetimes 
ago! 

Mark  sat  on  a  straddle  chair  before  her  to  admire 
her  wild-rose  coloring,  contrasting  it  with  Lissa's  well 
rouged  cheek.  He  liked  Thurley's  green  frock  which 
brought  out  the  whiteness  of  her  skin  and  the  glorious, 
deep  sea  eyes,  purple  in  the  winter's  afternoon  light. 
Presently  this  embryo  prima  donna  and  the  famous 
dancer,  who  for  the  time  being  mistook  shadow  for  sub- 
stance, found  themselves  discussing  juvenile  sports  which 
both  really  had  rebelled  at  leaving  behind. 

"You  skate?     So  do  I  —  let's  go  incog  —  I'll  wear 

183 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

a  mustache  —  there  is  certain  to  be  a  crowd  if  we're 
known,"  Lissa  heard  Mark  saying. 

".  .  .  and  in  summer  I  can  play  five  sets  of  tennis  — 
and  dance  half  the  night,"  Thurley  made  answer. 

"  Splendid  —  Collin  has  a  wonderful  court,  I  want  to 
take  you  up  there  — " 

Lissa's  pink  lips  were  thin  and  shrewd.  "  Come, 
dear,"  she  said  to  Mark  in  her  softest  voice,  "  the  little 
girl  will  be  hoarse  to-morrow  if  you  keep  her  chattering 
like  a  magpie." 

And  Thurley,  as  Ernestine  told  Hobart  afterwards, 
sank  in  her  first  feminine  harpoon!  She  rose  as  obedi- 
ently as  if  she  were  but  half  her  age,  saying, 

"  We  can  plan  about  it  later,  your  aunt  is  calling 
you!" 

After  which  Lissa,  snarls  and  purrs  all  in  one,  and 
Mark  more  confused  and  brief  in  his  farewells  than 
Ernestine  had  ever  seen  him,  made  an  inharmonious 
exit.  And  Ernestine  kissed  Thurley  and  twirled  her 
about,  saying,  "  Oh  beautiful  —  beautiful  —  beautiful!  " 


184 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Like  all  clever  women  who  have  met  defeat  often 
enough  to  escape  it  in  the  future,  Lissa  realized  the  best 
way  to  vanquish  an  enemy  was  to  know  her  intimately. 
Therefore,  she  invited  Thurley  to  dinner  at  the  Hotel 
Particular.  The  pink  card  looked  very  innocent  as  Thur- 
ley read  in  Lissa's  exaggerated  handwriting, 

"  I've  asked  no  one  else,  dear  child,  because  I  want 
really  to  know  you.  And  I  shall  not  take  no  for  an  an- 
swer —  I'll  come  and  get  you  if  you  don't  appear  at  the 
stroke  of  seven." 

Thurley  showed  the  card  to  Bliss  Hobart  before  they 
began  their  lesson,  watching  his  brows  draw  together  in 
quick  alarm  and  then  lift  cynically.  He  threw  it  aside 
with  an  annoyed  gesture. 

"  I  don't  like  Lissa's  trying  to  bag  my  game,  but 
you'll  have  to  go,  I  suppose,  and  be  done  with  it.  Please 
don't  absorb  any  of  her  silly  notions.  You've  been 
brought  up  so  far  as  any  nice  child  would  be  and  you  are 
not  spoiled.  You  could  be  very  easily  spoiled,  Thurley, 
and  a  frightful  person  if  you  were.  Some  persons  have 
single-  and  some  multiple-compartment  minds.  That  is 
why  a  single-compartment-minded  person  may  have  a 
tragic  experience  and  it  proves  the  end  of  him,  whereas 
a  multiple-compartment-minded  person  emerges  un- 
scathed, to  all  appearances,  only  a  part  of  him  harmed. 
The  single-compartment-minded  person  can  comprehend 
but  one  viewpoint,  good  or  bad,  one  aim,  believe  in  but 
one  result  —  if  it  is  good,  all  is  well  —  if  it  is  bad  — 

185 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

disaster,  hopeless  and  lasting.  You  have  forgotten 
Birge's  Corners  too  quickly,  Thurley,  to  make  me  fear 
you  are  of  the  single-compartment  variety.  But,  please, 
take  everything  Lissa  says  with  a  large  punctuation  of 
mental  salt  and  try  to  wastebasket  her  entire  influence." 

Thurley  laughed.  "  What  I  planned  to  do,  for  I  do 
not  like  her  and  I  do  like  Mark  Wirth.  Yet  she  inter- 
ests me.  Besides,  I  must  know  some  bad  people!  " 

Hobart  shook  his  head.  "  If  only  you  never  need  to 
—  heigho,  here  we  go,  talking  against  time  — " 

"  Tell  me,  does  Mark  Wirth  really  love  her?  "  Thur- 
ley insisted.  She  had  grown  to  feel  more  at  home  with 
Hobart  than  she  had  fancied  could  occur;  even  during 
his  abrupt,  aloof  moments  she  sensed  the  gentler  part  of 
him  as  being  merely  sidetracked  for  the  time  being. 

"  Mark,"  said  Hobart  as  he  sat  at  the  piano,  "  is  a 
case  of  the  old  warning,  '  Vices  first  abhorred,  next  en- 
dured, last  embraced.'  That  is  why  I  beg  you  to  make 
your  visits  to  the  Hotel  Particular  far  between  and  few." 

"  But  sometime  he  will  love  some  one  and  then  he'll 
find  himself,"  Thurley  concluded.  "  Can  he  go  on 
dancing  attendance  on  a  silly  old  woman  who  wants 
him  to  sacrifice  his  art  to  be  a  professional  ballroom 
dancer?  " 

"  You  are  here  for  a  singing  lesson,"  Hobart  tried 
to  argue,  "  but,  as  you  are  on  the  subject,  suppose  you 
suggest  that  thought  to  Mark,  if  you  ever  have  a  mo- 
ment alone  with  him.  Don't  tell  him  if  there  is  a  door 
ajar  —  unless  you  look  into  the  next  room  first.  Lissa 
is  the  eternal  vigilante  when  it  comes  to  Mark.  Bah,  it 
is  all  bad  tasting,  let's  sing  some  ballads  to  get  the  very 
idea  out  of  our  heads."  He  began,  "  Hark,  hark,  the 
lark  "  which  Thurley  sang —  and  as  she  sang  it  to  him, 
she  did  it  exquisitely. 

186 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

As  she  finished,  he  asked,  "  You  and  Lady  Sensible 
are  good  pals,  are  you  not?  " 

"  You  mean  Ernestine?  Oh,  yes,  I  love  her,"  Thurley 
began  rapturously,  "  even  when  she  is  at  her  mean- 
est." 

"Bravo!  I  will  tell  you  something.  Lady  Sensible 
is  a  great  artist,  none  greater  in  her  way,  but  if  she 
would  buy  Christmas  presents  for  cross  singing  teachers 
and  halfway  cry  when  she  thought  cross  teachers  had 
bought  nothing  for  her,  if  she  would  be  unbecomingly 
rosy  when  she  took  tea  with  a  certain  old  actor  and  jump 
right  up  and  down  and  say,  '  Oh  —  Oh !  '  when  she  saw 
Collin's  latest  portrait,  also  sitting  up  half  the  night  to 
read  that  rascal  Caleb's  latest  novel,  although  she  knows 
it  to  be  worthless  —  I  think  Lady  Sensible  could  play 
lullabies  that  would  give  women  the  patience  of  etern- 
ity and  girls  the  thrill  of  expectant  motherhood  and  in- 
spire men  on  to  the  heights.  Don't  tell  her  I  say  this 
for  I  have  already  tried  to  argue  it  out  with  her,  but 
she  fights  me  back  with  her  desiccated  logic !  But,  Thur- 
ley, do  you  keep  your  childish  appreciation  of  things  and 
that  adorable  intuition  —  then  all  the  world  will  go 
a-hunting  laurel  wreaths  for  you !  " 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  forehead,  pushing  her  away 
from  him  and  concluding,  "  Off  with  you  —  I  warrant 
you  haven't  opened  a  French  book  to-day.  And  you  have 
actually  made  me  sentimental !  But  when  you  are  both  a 
real  artist  and  a  real  girl,  I  shall  tell  you  a  wonderful 
secret  —  now,  am  I  such  a  tyrant?"  He  waved  his 
hand  at  her  until  she  unwillingly  disappeared. 

Outside  the  door  Thurley  began  to  smile  and  the  secre- 
tary and  stenographer  caught  its  contagion  and  smiled  at 
each  other  as  Thurley  passed  ahead.  The  elevator  man 
and  the  doorman  both  felt  unquestionably  chirked  up  as 

187 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

she  gazed  at  them.  Every  regret  or  loneliness  or  jealous 
thought  concerning  the  Corners  had  vanished.  She  felt 
sacred,  set  apart  from  every  one  and  she  would  only  share 
the  reason  with  a  lapis  lazuli  idol  with  a  painted  gold 
mouth  and  very  twinkling  diamond  eyes ! 

Thurley's  visit  to  the  Hotel  Particular,  Lissa's  box  of 
a  place,  left  her  with  the  belief  there  never  was  any  end 
to  surprises.  She  had  worn  a  white  silk  dress,  falling 
straight  from  the  shoulders,  flattering  herself  that  for  a 
dinner  with  a  middle-aged  singing  teacher  she  was  prop- 
erly costumed. 

But  when  she  came  into  the  house,  she  saw  her  error. 
For  here  she  encountered  elegance  at  home.  The  draw- 
ing-room had  the  intimate  charm  of  a  French  salon 
with  its  old  ivory  and  dull  blue  brocaded  hangings.  The 
furniture  was  painted  peacock  blue  and  covered  with  rose 
taffeta  with  a  silver  sheen  and  a  solemn,  stuffed  parrot 
on  a  gaily  painted  stand  looked  at  her  in  cynical  amuse- 
ment. 

All  about  the  room,  which  was  oppressively  perfumed 
as  well,  were  numerous  photographs  of  Lissa  taken  at 
various  ages  and  of  handsome  men,  young,  old,  middle- 
aged  and  all  of  them  autographed  with  superlative  senti- 
ments to,  "  Lissa  Dearest  "  or  "  Dear  Girl  Lissa  "  or 
"  Adorable  Madame  Dagmar  "  !  During  her  moment 
of  waiting  Thurley  tiptoed  about  to  read  the  inscrip- 
tions. 

There  were  several  of  Mark  of  decidedly  more  recent 
date,  some  in  ihis  dancing  attire  and  others  in  evening 
dress;  these  were  inscribed,  "  To  Lissa,  Best  Pal  Ever," 
and  in  corresponding  vein  and  as  Thurley's  blue  eyes 
stared  at  the  firm  writing,  she  wondered  if  it  was  right 
for  a  man  with  such  a  mind  as  Mark's  merely  to  dance 

188 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

through  life  and  leave  a  trail  of  battered  hearts  behind 
him ! 

There  was  a  lack  of  books  in  the  room  or  trifles  indi- 
cating pronounced  tastes  in  any  subject.  The  truth  was 
that  the  only  battles  of  life  which  Lissa  considered  were 
worth  fighting  were  those  against  her  double  chin  and, 
beyond  handsome  editions  bound  to  match  handsome  sofa 
pillows,  she  gave  no  thought  to  the  printed  page. 

Even  the  piano  seemed  displeasing  in  its  peacock  blue 
frame  with  leopard  skin  rugs  spread  fantastically  before 
the  blue  and  gold  bench.  Thnrley  read  the  titles  of  the 
music  on  the  rack.  She  had  a  suspicion  she  would  find 
cloying,  East  Indian  love  songs  or  French  chansons  with 
small  raison  d'etre,  and  she  was  smiling  at  having  been 
so  utterly  correct  when  Lissa  swept  into  the  room  in  a 
striking  cherry  red  velvet  with  a  complete  armor  of  jet 
jewelry,  saying  in  affected  fashion, 

"  What  is  the  little  one  thinking  about?  Do  you  like 
those  songs?  Or  don't  they  let  you  have  a  go  at  them? 
I  imagine  your  layout  is  as  heavy  as  a  boiled  English 
pudding!  " 

Rather  confused,  Thurley  nodded. 

"  How  larky  to  have  you  alone!  I  suppose  you  had 
to  steal  away  to  me."  She  stroked  Thurley's  cheek  and 
the  girl  winced  under  the  soft,  sure  touch,  too  practised, 
suggestive  of  a  claw  beneath  the  velvety  fingers. 

"  It  is  so  pleasant  to  come,  Madame  Dagmar  — " 

"Madame?  Lissa!  I  insist!  Why,  I'm  not  your 
grandmother,  silly  sweet,  years  do  not  matter  in  our 
world!  What  have  those  disgruntled  persons  tried  to 
tell  you?" 

A  gong  sounded  the  dinner  hour  and  Lissa  led  her  into 
a  fantastic  dining-room  where  a  table  groaned  under 
unwholesome  goodies. 

189 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Don't  mention  banting,"  Lissa  said,  sitting  down  un- 
ceremoniously, reaching  for  anchovies  and  caviar.  u  I 
adore  eating.  I  don't  believe  in  denying  oneself  any  of 
the  good  things  of  life.  Come,  Thurley,  pretend  you 
are  at  home,  wherever  that  is,  and  have  a  schoolgirl 
feast  of  it.  The  desserts  will  be  poor  because  cook 
is  so  involved  in  a  breach  of  promise  suit."  With  small 
regard  for  etiquette,  Lissa  was  "  wading  in,"  as  Dan 
Birge  would  have  said. 

Thurley  contrasted  it  with  the  "  family  "  dinner  par- 
ties where  food  was  merely  the  medium  of  their  getting 
together;  where  every  one  talked  first  and  ate  last.  Not 
so  with  Lissa ;  she  had  a  quick,  untidy  way  of  swallowing 
her  food  and  talking  while  she  did  so;  she  spotted  her 
bodice  in  revolting  fashion,  dabbing  at  the  stain  with 
her  napkin  and  saying  she  ought  to  be  sent  to  bed ! 

In  fact,  Lissa  had  little  time  to  talk  to  Thurley  until 
the  cafe  noir  was  served  in  the  salon.  Then,  uncom- 
fortable from  the  six-course  dinner  to  which  she  had  done 
full  justice,  now  dipping  into  a  box  of  puffy  chocolates 
with  nut  centers  and  taking  absinthe  with  practised  sips, 
she  turned  her  rather  fleshy  face  towards  Thurley  and  re- 
marked, 

"  You  know,  the  only  way  I  remember  places  in  Eu- 
rope is  by  the  things  we  had  to  eat  at  them!  Take 
Stratford-on-Avon,  for  instance,  I  always  appear  ani- 
mated when  it  is  mentioned,  but  not  because  of  the 
Hathaway  woman  or  Bill  Shakespeare,  but  the  wonder- 
ful gooseberry  tarts  .  .  .  then  Rome  —  what  cheese ! 
And  Moscow  —  with  its  caviar  and  cordials  —  and 
Amsterdam  with  boiled  beef  and  a  delectable  shrimp 
sauce,"  she  halfway  closed  her  eyes  as  she  sipped  the  rest 
of  her  absinthe  and  rebuked  Thurley  for  refusing  it. 

"  Perhaps  you  smoke?  "  she  suggested.  "  My  throat 

190 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

won't  stand  for  it  and  I  take  sweets  as  a  consolation." 

"  No,  thank  you  —  at  least  not  yet."  Thurley  won- 
dered if  she  would  ever  cease  meeting  famous  persons  and 
going  to  wonderful  houses  where  she  had  an  entirely 
new  scheme  of  life  handed  to  her  stamped  with  a  seal 
of  approval ! 

"  Do  have  a  chocolate,"  Lissa  pressed  them  on  Thur- 
ley. She  had  a  sort  of,  "May  I  —  oh,  may  I?"  air 
which  Dickens'  Mr.  Pumblechook  possessed  when  ask- 
ing for  the  pleasure  of  merely  shaking  hands. 

Thurley  took  one  but  laid  it  aside.  "  Mr.  Hobart 
forbids  it,"  she  said. 

Lissa  made  a  little  moue.  "  The  world  does  not  obey 
Bliss  Hobart,  even  if  it  does  consult  him.  For  my  part, 
we  are  cordial  enemies,  both  knowing  the  other's  weak 
points.  After  all,  Bliss  was  never  cut  out  for  anything 
more  extraordinary  than  a  first  husband.  But  of  course 
he  will  never  marry,"  the  green  eyes  watching  Thurley 
carefully. 

"  Why  not?  "  Thurley  was  unconscious  of  her  betrayal. 

Lissa  gave  a  contented  purr;  she  would  have  some- 
thing to  tell  Mark!  "Because,  although  no  one  really 
knows  much  about  it,  he  disappears  very  mysteriously 
every  summer  for  weeks  at  a  time.  He  cannot  be 
reached  by  letter  or  telegraph,  I've  heard,  and  of  course, 
in  this  day  and  age,  as  in  any  other,  he  does  not  go 
alone." 

"  Not  —  not  that  sort  of  thing,"  Thurley  was  too 
angry  to  conceal  the  fact. 

'Why  not?  Every  one  knows  that  Bliss  Hobart, 
whose  mother  was  an  Italian  and  father  an  American, 
was  born  and  brought  up  in  Italy  where  he  acquired  the 
romantic  tendencies  of  that  land.  Some  say  he  sang 
well  when  he  was  twenty,  but  something  happened  and 

191 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

he  had  a  fever  which  took  his  voice  and  turned  his  hair 
gray  and  then  he  came  to  America  where  he  has 
been  a  clever  but  presuming  person  with  the  aroma  of 
mystery  to  make  him  all  the  more  enticing.  You  will 
find  out,  Thurley;  wait  until  he  vanishes  around  the  first 
of  June." 

"  Of  course  the  family  knows  where  he  goes."  Thur- 
ley spoke  the  name  before  she  thought;  it  brought  sharp, 
black  lights  into  the  green  eyes. 

"  That  ridiculous  family,  so  reserved  and  exclusive, 
they  bore  me!  Well,  not  even  being  the  family  skele- 
ton, I  can't  say,  but  I  fancy  they  know  little.  Now  you 
take  such  a  conceited,  haughty  person  as  Ernestine  Chris- 
tian or  that  stupid  Caleb  or  Collin  with  his  childish,  im- 
possible manners  or  that  queer  little  wisp  —  Polly  some- 
thing—" 

"  But  you  forget  I  am  the  baby  of  the  family,"  Thur- 
ley reminded. 

"  A  thousand  pardons.  My  dear,  I  did  not  mean  to 
offend.  Of  course  I  have  my  own  circle,  too.  I  am 
welcome  in  the  best  homes  in  France  and  England  and 
I  am  always  being  taken  for  a  marquise.  I  have  my  own 
theories  about  art  and  quite  as  much  of  a  clientele  as 
these  fossils  you  have  been  bundled  into  without  a  warn- 
ing. Don't  let  them  monopolize  you  with  their  nun- 
nish,  strange  ideas  —  so  utterly  loveless  — " 

"  But  I  have  promised  never  to  marry,"  Thurley  in- 
terrupted. 

Lissa  laughed.  "  Artists  seldom  have  the  hen  spirit ! 
For  myself,  I  am  always  more  interested  in  a  second 
wedding  than  a  first,  and  if  the  first  is  only  to  tell  you 
what  to  avoid  in  the  second,  why  have  the  first?  " 

"  But  — "  began  Thurley  rather  helplessly. 

"  For  a  second  wedding  I  always  see  myself  in  a  gown 

192 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

of  gold  brocade  and  a  blond  veil,  both  guiltless  of  trim- 
ming." Lissa's  eyes  strayed  toward  a  photograph  of 
Mark  which  stood  on  a  nearby  gilt  table. 

"  But  —  it  isn't  right,  you  know,  to  — "  Thurley  was 
naught  but  a  huge  gaucherie. 

Lissa  threw  back  her  head  to  laugh,  her  plump  white 
chin  quivering  after  the  soft  sound  ceased.  Absinthe 
brought  about  freedom  of  speech  —  and  liberty  for  all ! 
"  A  fig  for  man-made  laws !  Don't  you  know  laws  are 
made  for  the  mass?  Are  you  one  of  them?  You  know 
you  are  not  or  you  would  not  have  a  fairybook  life, 
coming  to  New  York  to  be  trained  by  Bliss  Hobart! 
You  may  not  know  it  as  well  as  I,  but  I  tell  you  this 
much  —  I  would  not  ask  you  to  dinner  if  you  were 
merely  one  of  the  mass.  Count  me  snobbish,  if  you 
like,  you'll  be  the  same.  None  of  us  have  time  for 
any  one  who  does  not  make  it  worth  our  while.  I  was 
careful  to  find  out  about  you  before  I  wrote  you  the 
note  —  and  when  you  are  very  famous,  perhaps  you'll 
write  a  '  recommend  '  card  for  me  or  let  me  polish  off  a 
song  or  two;  even  Bliss  admits  I  can  coach  1  " 

She  went  to  a  table  to  find  an  album,  beckoning  to 
Thurley  to  join  her.  "  See  —  here  and  here  —  and  this 
one  —  aren't  they  as  famous  as  your  family?  Look  at 
this  photo  and  that  autograph,  well,  what  did  I  tell  you? 
Don't  become  lop-sided,  Thurley,  or  change  into  a 
crabbed  spinster.  Live  and  let  love  come  to  you  —  you 
are  a  genius,  a  super-creature  —  you  have  the  right  to 
love  as  you  please !  " 

"You  do  believe  so?"  Thurley  fairly  whispered  the 
words.  She  fancied  she  had  so  stolidly  locked  away 
love  from  her  wild-rose  heart! 

"  I  know  so !  The  greatest  artists  have  always  been 
exceptions  to  the  rule,  never  meek  slaves  of  the  law." 

193 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

In  a  clever,  vivacious  manner,  Lissa  proceeded  to  tell 
risque  stories  of  this  actor  and  that  singer,  the  pianist 
who  loved  and  hated  all  in  a  month  and  loved  and  hated 
again  before  another  fortnight  passed,  the  artist's  model 
who  became  morganatic  queen  of  a  small  Balkan  kingdom 
and  threw  aside  her  rank  to  join  her  worthless,  gypsy 
lover,  dancers  who  did  so  and  so,  the  poet  and  novelist 
who  had  never  spoken  the  word  constancy  and  whose 
works  the  humdrum,  constant  world  accepted  with  rever- 
ent unquestioning! 

As  she  stood  there  in  her  flaring  red  velvet  gown,  the 
clever  lamp-light  showing  the  beauty  of  her  hair,  per- 
fume addling  Thurley's  brain,  the  purring,  soft  voice 
never  ceasing  and  the  green  eyes  smiling  fixedly,  Thurley 
began  to  wonder  if  it  would  not  be  well  to  be  friends 
with  Lissa,  despite  Hobart  and  Ernestine,  to  know  the 
other  side  of  the  art  world  —  all  its  phases  and  possibili- 
ties —  for  had  she  not  a  multiple-compartment  mind? 

After  a  little,  Lissa  drew  her  to  her  and  they  walked 
to  a  tete-a-tete  and  sat  there,  Lissa  drinking  absinthe 
and  Thurley  hearing  more  strange,  wicked  but  fascinat- 
ing things  all  of  which  might  become  realities  for  her- 
self and  still  keep  the  letter  of  her  vow  to  Abigail  Clergy. 

"  The  greater  the  artist  the  more  unmoral  he  must 
be,  not  immoral,  that  is  for  the  commoner  —  but  un- 
moral—  morals  do  not  matter.  Art  is  a  question  of 
light  and  shade,  ability,  press  agents  —  so  on.  An  art- 
ist cannot  achieve  if  hampered  by  petty,  binding  laws  and 
paltry  promises;  he  must  have  freedom  of  thought  and 
action,  see  —  I  make  no  pretense,  Thurley,  of  being  a 
Victorian  matron,"  she  pointed  to  the  rows  of  photo- 
graphs all  of  which  were  of  men. 

"  I  am  Lissa  Dagmar  and  society  knows  and  values 
me  because  I  dare  to  be  what  I  am.  Society  sends  me 

194 


its  most  precious  debutantes  to  take  lessons  —  and  some 
day,  you,  too,  Thurley,  will  laugh  as  I  do  at  these  fragile 
ideals  the  world  weaves  about  us  people  who  do  things. 
The  people  who  have  things  to  do  may  be  nuns  and 
monks  and  model  married  couples,  but  those  who  do 
things  —  wait,  wait  until  you  meet  your  opera  associates 
—  ou,  la-la,"  she  broke  into  a  French  street  song  ending 
with  an  unexpectedly  high  note  which  thrilled  Thurley's 
whole  being. 

"  Oh,  Lissa  Dagmar,"  she  said,  as  fascinated  as  a 
country  lad  with  the  fair  snake  charmer,  "  let  me  come 
to  see  you  again  — " 

Lissa  leaned  back  in  contentment.  She  had  thrown 
the  spell  as  she  planned  —  since  she  had  not  forgotten 
that  Thurley  had  called  her  Mark  Wirth's  aunt!  She 
was  telling  more  of  her  scheme  of  things  when  Mark 
himself  dropped  in  and  was,  for  once,  an  unwanted 
guest. 

"  I'm  awfully  glad  to  see  you,"  he  told  Thurley. 
"  Hobart  said  you  would  be  here  —  so  I  came."  He 
avoided  Lissa's  eyes.  "  He  said  I  must  bring  you  home 
because  he  does  not  like  stray  cab  drivers  and  he  says 
you've  no  car  of  your  own.  I  say,  Lissa,  I've  got  the 
coast  engagement  and  if  I  have  my  company  ready  by  the 
first  of  April,  we'll  be  on  our  way." 

Lissa  mumbled  a  response.  Mark  was  looking  at 
Thurley's  half  flushed  cheeks  and  startled  eyes,  the  prim 
white  gown  cut  high  in  the  neck  —  a  contrast  to  Lissa's 
sumptuous  red  velvet  which  revealed  a  fifth  vertebra ! 

"  Oh,  do  take  me  home.  I've  heard  such  a  world  of 
new  things  and  eaten  such  a  goody  shop  that  I'll  have 
hard  work  to  be  of  any  use  to-morrow!"  It  was  a 
relief  to  have  Mark  appear;  there  was  a  hint  of  the 
boy  Dan  in  his  manner  and  his  handsome  self  hovering 

195 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

about  her.  She  looked  at  Lissa  and  enjoyed  her  dis- 
comfiture, wondering  if  when  she  had  dissected  her 
theories  she  would  still  believe  in  them  or  if  there  were 
not  something  of  the  sorceress  about  Lissa  with  her  pur- 
ring voice  and  velvet-like  hands.  Then,  realizing  that 
Mark  was  one  of  Lissa's  "  pet  robins,"  as  she  named 
him,  that  he  —  all  the  oldtime  horror  which  the  Corners 
had  bestowed  upon  its  "  nice  "  girls  rushed  over  her 
and  she  grew  monosyllabic  and  preoccupied  as  she  made 
ready  to  accept  his  escort. 

Lissa  kissed  her  good-night  and  added,  "  Drop  in  on 
your  way  home,  Mark,  I've  something  to  tell  you." 

"  Oh,  you  want  to  see  me  to-night?  "  His  voice  was 
rather  lack-lustre. 

As  the  cab  rolled  off  in  the  night,  Lissa  standing  at 
the  glass  doors,  a  striking  figure  in  her  crimson  gown, 
Mark  said  anxiously, 

"  What  did  you  talk  about?  Lissa's  such  a  rattlebox 
when  she  has  had  absinthe !  " 

Thurley  answered  coldly,  "  Art,"  after  which  Mark 
tried  to  explain  his  coming  tour  but  it  brought  no  re- 
sponse from  Thurley.  She  was  trying  to  decide  three 
things  all  at  once. 

Did  she  or  did  she  not  believe  Lissa's  theories? 
Should  she  have  a  contempt  for  Mark  who  evidently  did 
coincide  with  them  or  should  she,  womanlike,  flirt  with 
him  since  he  seemed  most  willing?  Lastly,  where  did 
Bliss  Hobart  go  to  of  a  summer?  Perhaps  green  lights 
showed  in  Thurley's  eyes  as  well. 

But  she  would  have  been  still  more  disillusioned  had 
she  seen  Mark  an  hour  later  returning  to  the  Hotel 
Particular  and  finding  an  enraged,  ugly  woman,  harsh- 
voiced,  red-faced,  clad  in  a  pink  chiffon  negligee  with 
hideous  flounces. 

196 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

'  You  needn't  think  she'll  look  at  you,"  she  began  ac- 
cusingly, pounding  her  heavy  fists  on  the  table.  "  She  is 
Hobart's  prize  and  he  is  no  saint,  even  if  he  does  have  his 
playtime  where  the  neighbors  can't  see  him!  How  dare 
you  come  in  here  and  take  her  home  —  an  insult  to  me," 
letting  rage  carry  her  to  the  top  notch  of  unreason  and 
unrestraint  while  Mark,  sullen  yet  anxious  to  appease, 
was  forced  to  watch  the  entire  procedure.  Presently  he 
found  opportunity  to  reply, 

"  I  say,  don't  tear  it  off  rough !  Have  I  neglected 
you  or  done  anything  without  your  approval?  I've  held 
up  my  best  work  to  please  you,  because  you  want  to  stick 
in  New  York  where  you  have  a  drag.  Don't  you  think 
that  is  something?  But  I'll  do  the  coast  thing  if  it 
means  a  break,"  a  determined  look  replacing  the  anxious 
expression. 

Lissa's  eyes  narrowed.  She  saw  she  had  overreached 
herself.  Cleverly,  she  began  a  retreat.  "  Mark  dear, 
I'm  jealous!  I'm  not  a  nice  young  thing  like  Thurley 
—  and  you  were  a  naughty  bear  to  drop  in  and  take 
her  home  —  leave  poor  Lissa  all  aloney.  Please,  honey, 
kiss  me;  say  you  love  me;  you  won't  go  'way  out  to  the 
coast.  I  won't  let  you.  Remember  all  I've  given  up 
for  you,"  pointing  at  the  photograph  of  an  elderly,  well 
known  man  of  finance.  "  I  must  have  love,  Mark,  and 
loyalty  —  such  as  I  give  the  one  I  love." 

"  Yes,  but  not  servility  —  not  crushing  every  bit  of 
originality  and  decency  from  a  chap  —  that  girl's  eyes 
look  you  through !  " 

"  Where  would  you  have  been  if  not  for  me?  "  Lissa 
was  holding  him  half  by  force.  "  Who  helped  you 
when  you  had  the  fever?  Who  introduced  you  to  New- 
port, who  — " 

Mark  threw  off  her  arm  roughly.  "  Stop !  Some- 

197 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

times  I  wish  you'd  let  me  find  my  own  gait  in  my  own 
way  —  maybe  it  wouldn't  be  dancing — " 

Lissa  burst  into  effective  sobs.  "  Don't  say  you  want 
to  be  a  horrid  old  lawyer  or  sawbones !  Why  is  it  so 
many  wonderful  men  have  loved  me,  yet  I  give  my  heart 
to  a  sulky  boy  that  cannot  appreciate  what  it  means  — 
why  is  it?  "  she  demanded  of  the  empty  absinthe  glass. 

Mark  almost  laughed.      "  I'll  play  fair,"  he  said  dog- 
gedly, "  but  I  do  the  coast  tour  in  April." 
'  You'll  grow  away  from  me  — " 

"  Which  might  be  a  good  thing.  I  thought  you  didn't 
want  constancy,  did  you  tell  Thurley  so  —  try  to  make 
her  see  your  death-in-life  stuff?" 

"  You've  been  drinking!  " 

"  No,  you've  been  drinking  and  I've  been  thinking. 
You  know,  Lissa,  it's  well  enough  to  play  off  a  few 
weeks  of  nonsense  abroad;  something  about  Monaco  and 
Florence  get  into  your  blood.  But,  after  all,  a  fellow 
must  think  ahead  and  so  ought  a  woman.  I  want  to  be 
the  soap-and-water-washed  sort  I  was.  Makes  me  wish 
I  hadn't  danced  a  step  —  had  a  hammer-toe  or  a  club- 
foot  so  I  couldn't!  " 

"  You've  been  talking  to  Bliss,"  she  said  sharply. 

"  He  does  jerk  me  up  now  and  then." 

Lissa  threw  back  her  head  and  closed  her  eyes. 
"  Have  I  wasted  the  finest  love  of  my  live  on  a  cad?  " 
she  asked  of  some  unseen  presence.  "  Have  I  told  my 
secrets,  the  secrets  of  my  inner  shrine  — " 

"  Not  inner  shrine,"  Mark  could  not  refrain  from 
adding,  "  inner  shrink!  " 

Lissa  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  You  young  idiot,"  she 
said  between  set  teeth,  "  you  know  I'll  not  let  you  go 
until  I'm  ready  to  —  I  never  do  —  I'll  show  the  whole 
pack  of  prudes  that  I  can  beat  their  game  — " 

198 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Then  the  cad  in  the  boy,  which  is  in  every  boy,  came 
to  the  surface  and  battled  for  supremacy  in  his  hand- 
some face  right  and  wrong;  he  smiled  in  smug  fashion 
symbolic  of  the  fact  that  he  had  passed  up  the  struggle. 

"  Maybe  I've  just  wanted  to  see  how  you  cared,"  he 
suggested.  "  Got  any  more  of  that  stuff  to  drink?  " 
He  sat  on  the  tete-a-tete  and,  waiting  until  she  poured  it 
out,  let  him  celebrate  the  defeat  of  his  better  half. 
"  My  word,  Thurley  has  a  long  road  to  go  I  " 


199 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Thurley  did  not  see  much  of  Lissa  or  Mark  for  the 
next  few  weeks.  Perhaps  Lissa  deemed  it  wiser  not  to 
encourage  Thurley's  becoming  one  of  her  protegees  be- 
cause of  Mark, —  at  least,  until  Thurley  was  a  prima 
donna  and  her  mind  busied  with  many  things.  At  the 
present  time  Thurley  was  amenable  to  all  new  faces  and 
suggestions.  Had  she  permitted  her  to  be  more  with 
Mark  than  was  customary  who  knows  but  what  the  result 
would  spell  disaster  for  Lissa's  contentment.  Let  Thur- 
ley taste  of  fame  as  Lissa  had,  for  a  short  time,  tasted, 
and  she  knew  no  mere  individuals  could  claim  her  atten- 
tion as  they  might  now. 

Neither  did  Thurley  see  Sam  Sparling  nor  Ernestine 
for  they  were  on  tour.  Sam  sent  her  a  doll,  a  won- 
derful, fluffy-skirted  young  lady  doll  with  her  brown 
hair  combed  modishly,  bits  of  kid  gloves  reaching  to 
the  dimpled,  wax  elbows  and  a  paste  brilliant  necklace. 
The  accompanying  card  read,  "  Thurley  Precore,  prima 
donna,  from  an  old  beau!  "  And  when  Thurley  auda- 
ciously took  the  doll  to  Hobart's  studio  the  next  lesson 
hour,  Hobart  pretended  to  give  the  lesson  to  the  doll  and 
not  Thurley,  saying  in  conclusion, 

"  As  no  one  else  is  here,  Thurley,  I  can  lecture  you  all 
I  like  and  say  what  I  really  think  —  how  charming  you 
look  in  that  costume  —  but  please  don't  listen  to  Lissa's 
nonsense,  you'll  hear  enough  of  it  presently.  Kid  gloves, 
too!  I  declare  if  Sam  hasn't  lost  his  old  heart  — " 

200 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"Why  not  listen  to  Lissa?"  asked  Thurley,  imitat-. 
ing  a  doll's  shrill  voice. 

"  Because  you  must  choose  the  straight,  narrow  path 
of  hard  work  and  a  terrific  loneliness  of  soul  if  your 
success  is  to  be  lasting  and  independent  of  others.  You 
may  bestow  your  affections  on  some  one  as  a  gracious 
favor  —  after  you  have  made  for  yourself  your  public 
place  —  but  never  listen  to  what  such  women  as  Lissa 
chatter  about  —  or  such  women  as  you  will  meet  in  the 
opera  house.  You  will  see  them  come  and  go,  quickly 
appearing  and  more  rapidly  disappearing  and  that  is  be- 
cause they  have  followed  Lissa's  logic." 

"  But  please,"  still  imitating  the  doll's  voice,  "  what 
in  the  world  am  I  to  do?  I've  promised  never  to  marry 
any  one  and  I'm  sure  I  won't  love  any  one  I  cannot  marry. 
I'm  not  keen  on  slum  work  and  I  don't  choose  cigarettes 
and  Persian  kitties  for  my  home  atmosphere  as  Ernestine 
does  —  nor  attics  like  Polly." 

Hobart's  face  was  grave.  "  Some  day,  we  will  talk 
about  things  and  I  will  tell  my  secrets  —  but  not  yet,  you 
are  too  young  and  flushed  with  dreams."  He  stopped 
speaking  to  the  doll  as  he  added,  "  YQU  must  tramp 
abroad  with  Ernestine  this  summer;  Miss  Clergy  may  go 
or  not  as  she  wishes.  But  when  you  return  you  are  to 
start  rehearsals  for  your  debut." 

Thurley  looked  at  him  for  a  long,  glorious  moment. 
After  all,  it  had  been  worth  the  winter's  work  and  be- 
wildering experiences.  To  make  her  debut  —  would  she 
ever  forget  the  day  in  the  stableyard  of  the  Hotel  Button 
when  Dan  engaged  her  to  sing  at  his  circus,  rival  to  the 
"  great  swinging  man  " —  and  she  had  told  him  then  that 
some  day  she  was  to  sing  before  great  audiences  — 
maybe  earning  as  much  as  a  dollar  a  night! 

"  I'm  not  ready,"  she  began. 

201 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  You  will  be  —  stage  directions,  a  good  maid,  a  press 
agent,  Santoza's  coaching  and  a  little  polishing  here  and 
there.  I  told  you  the  first  day  you  sang  for  me  that  God 
had  taught  you  how  to  sing,  man  merely  teaching  you 
what." 

"  Abroad  —  London  —  Paris  —  Spain  — "  Thurley 
began  to  whisper.  "It's  true — isn't  it?  —  say  that  it 
is  — ,"  dancing  up  to  him,  her  eyes  like  stars. 

"  Don't  be  too  happy,"  he  suggested  almost  testily, 
"  I  can't  bear  to  see  it!  " 

"Why  not?"  she  was  the  aggrieved,  wild-rose  child 
speaking  her  mind  regardless  of  the  person  who  was 
listening.  "  Because  you  are  not  happy?  " 

"  No,  because  you  must  find  out  sooner  or  later  that 
each  life  is  given  so  much  happiness,  pain,  cowardice, 
bravery,  all  attributes  and  emotions,  the  same  as  we 
are*  physically  endowed  with  so  much  eyesight,  hearing, 
power  of  locomotion,  and  when  you  realize  that  and  know 
that  when  you  burn  up  all  the  joy  and  ecstasy  of  unthink- 
ing youth,  there  is  nothing,  nothing  that  can  ever  cause 
such  joy  to  exist  again  or  give  one  such  an  abandon  of 
mirth  —  all  the  rest  of  life  snails  on  in  gray  patterns  — 
I'd  like  to  have  you  save  your  joy  for  things  more  worth 
while  than  this,  distribute  it  so  it  will  last  through  the 
gray  days,  Thurley!  " 

Looking  at  him,  Thurley  saw  that  his  face  was  a  dan- 
gerous, shiny  white  as  if  he  had  been  ill  a  long  time 
and  his  eyes  were  deadish,  burnt-out  things. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  began  impulsively,  "  that  you've  no 
joy  left—" 

Hobart  recalled  himself  and  began  pointing  out  errors 
in  her  last  song.  They  did  not  go  beneath  the  surface 
again  during  the  lesson.  When  it  was  finished,  Hobart 
said  November  would  probably  be  the  month  of  her  debut, 

202 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

—  not  in  "Faust"  as  she  had  fondly  imagined  but  as 
the  vivacious  Rosina  in  "The  Barber  of  Seville";  pro- 
test all  she  liked,  Rosina  it  was  to  be. 

"  That  is  nearly  seven  months  away,"  he  said,  looking 
out  at  the  April  sky.  "  Ernestine  writes  she  will  be 
home  by  June  and  you  will  start  soon  after.  You  must 
be  back  by  the  middle  of  September  —  however,  that 
gives  you  quite  a  holiday.  From  now  on,  Thurley,  I 
shall  not  see  you  — "  he  held  out  h's  hand  but  she  did 
not  seem  to  notice. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  London,  to  superintend  some  pantomime  things  and 
opera.  I'll  be  back  in  June  but  not  until  you  have  sailed; 
we'll  almost  be  ships  passing  in  the  night.  But  I'll  be 
here  in  September  to  hear  you  tell  of  the  Old  World 
as  seen  by  two  very  blue  eyes.  To-morrow  you  will 
please  go  to  Santoza  for  coaching.  You  don't  like  him 
and  he  likes  no  one  save  his  gnarled  old  self  —  he  has 
seen  too  many  women  play  hob  with  too  many  men  ever 
to  like  the  loveliest  of  beginners.  But  he  will  teach  you 
all  you  need  to  know  and  Antone  will  take  you  for  the 
singing  hour.  If  Lissa  suggests  that  she  coach  you, 
ward  her  off.  Now,  my  little  prodigy,  good-by  and  a 
happy  summer." 

Still  Thurley  did  not  take  his  hand.  "  Where  do 
you  go  from  June  until  September?  "  she  demanded. 

Hobart  neither  glowered  nor  started  as  she  anticipated. 
He  laughed  and  patted  her  shoulder,  whispering,  "  Ah, 
that  would  be  telling  — " 

Some  one  tapped  at  his  door  and  Thurley,  perforce, 
tore  herself  away. 

She  would  not  see  Bliss  Hobart  for  nearly  seven 
months  .  .  .  seven  months  .  .  .  then  she  would  make 
her  debut!  Well,  if  she  could  glean  from  Ernestine  bits 

203 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

of  her  philosophy  and  from  Polly  her  contagious  jollity 
and  add  a  trifle  of  Lissa's  purring  loveliness  —  and  she 
became  as  famous  as  her  own  voice  could  make  any  one 
—  perhaps  even  Bliss  Hobart  might  be  tempted  to  say 
where  he  disappeared  each  year! 

Thurley  was  planning  a  startling  series  of  events  be- 
tween herself  and  Bliss  Hobart  as  she  left  the  building, 
trying  not  to  let  tears  crowd  her  blue  eyes  or  betray  she 
was  perturbed.  .  .  .  Santoza,  hateful  ogre  with  dirty, 
yellow  hands,  absurd,  striped  clothes  and  long,  greasy 
hair,  always  mumbling  to  himself  in  Italian  —  she  must 
study  with  Santoza  and  have  those  yellow,  soiled  fin- 
gers whirl  angrily  in  the  air  as  he  tried  to  explain  wherein 
she  was  in  error  and  with  Antone,  that  cynical  little  dandy 
with  no  more  heart  than  flint,  who  stared  at  her  through 
half-closed  lids  and  only  ridiculed,  never  praised! 

Then  Thurley  resolved  a  dangerous  but  very  feminine 
thing.  Had  she  but  known,  many  other  younger  and 
lovelier  women  than  herself  had  resolved  the  same  thing 
regarding  Bliss  Hobart.  She  would  make  him  care  for 
her!  Not  even  Miss  Clergy's  vow  should  prove  an  ob- 
stacle. She  would  make  him  care  .  .  .  after  that  was 
an  undetermined  stage  of  rapture,  a  new  and  alluring 
sort  of  ooze  in  which  to  take  refuge  after  hateful  hours 
with  Santoza  and  Antone  and  wondering  moments  as 
to  what  Hobart  was  doing  and  where  he  hid  for  his 
summer  holiday !  Thurley  would  make  him  care.  Hav- 
ing achieved  that,  she  would  then  employ  Lissa's  theories 
as  a  vaulting  pole  to  take  her  well  over  the  handicap 
which  Miss  Clergy  fancied  she  had  forever  placed  in  the 
way  of  romantic  love. 

No  woman  had  yet  succeeded.  This  Thurley  did  not 
know;  like  all  the  others  she  was  sure  that  she  was  to 
prove  the  exception. 

204 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

She  worked  with  Antone  and  Santoza  cultivating  an 
attitude  of  indifference  to  offset  their  unpleasant  person- 
alities. Miss  Clergy,  in  her  squirrel  cage  of  a  world, 
looked  on  with  pleased  but  feeble  eyes  and  told  Thurley 
she  must  go  abroad  with  Ernestine  Christian. 

'You'll  come,  too?"  Thurley  begged.  "You  must 
not  stay  so  alone.  All  you  do  is  to  drive  and  read  — 
and  you  do  read  the  same  books  over  and  over  —  and  talk 
with  me  a  little  and  sleep  a  great  deal.  When  I  drag 
you  into  a  shop  you  are  as  timid  as  can  be  and  you  won't 
meet  people  though  I've  coaxed  and  begged.  Please 
come  with  us  —  think  of  France,  Spain,  Italy,"  Thurley 
hurried  on  to  produce  many  new  and  tempting  argu- 
ments. 

Miss  Clergy  shook  her  head.  "  He  came  from  Italy," 
she  said.  "  I  could  not  bear  it." 

Remorseful,  undecided  what  was  best  to  say,  Thurley 
stood  back  abashed.  "  Oh,  don't  let  it  hurt  for  so  long 
—  you've  burnt  up  all  your  joy,"  recalling  Hobart's 
words. 

Miss  Clergy  waved  Thurley  off.  "  I'll  go  to  a  rest 
cure,"  she  decided.  "  Now  be  off,  my  head  is  starting 
to  ache." 

Still  Thurley  hesitated.  "  You  won't  go  back  to  the 
Corners?  "  she  asked. 

Miss  Clergy  gave  a  cackling  laugh.  "  Don't  worry, 
Thurley,  I'd  not  go  back  even  to  dance  at  Dan  Birge's 
wedding." 

Thurley  left  the  room.  She  tried  Ernestine's  antidote 
for  heart  stirrings  as  she  practised  scales,  louder  and 
louder  in  more  and  more  glorious  a  voice  until  Miss 
Clergy  fell  asleep,  happy  at  heart — for  had  she  not 
at  the  eleventh  hour  saved  a  genius  from  mediocrity  and 
secured  revenge  for  her  withered  tragedy? 

205 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

The  first  Sunday  morning  in  May,  Polly  Harris  ap- 
peared to  carry  Thurley  off,  first  to  her  attic  to  retrieve 
something  she  had  forgotten,  and  next  to  Collin  Hedley's 
garden  and  chateau  a  few  miles  up  the  Hudson. 

"  I  knew  this  wasn't  lesson  day  and  so  I  was  sure  you 
would  come  along.  Wear  something  old  because  Collin's 
place  is  one  of  those  shabby-elegant  affairs  where  new 
costumes  seem  vulgar.  I  think  the  only  time  when  Lissa 
is  ever  uncomfortable  is  at  Collin's  garden  parties,  but  she 
has  to  come  because  she  is  jealous  of  Mark  and  there  she 
is,  a  great,  painted  doll  among  real  things." 

Polly  audaciously  danced  about  Miss  Clergy's  rooms 
while  Thurley  hurried  into  her  blue  serge  with  a  flat, 
black  sailor.  Polly  kept  up  a  pleasing  conversation  with 
Miss  Clergy  as  to  Thurley's  debut  and  the  proposed  trip 
abroad,  the  wonderful  things  Bliss  had  been  doing  in 
London  and  what  a  jolly  world  it  was  anyhow,  actually 
tucking  an  extra  pillow  behind  Miss  Clergy's  back  and 
leaving  her  the  last  issue  of  a  shocking  art  journal  as  her 
proper  Sabbath  reading.  Hobart  had  truly  prophesied 
that  when  Polly  went  to  heaven  she  would  be  given  the 
position  of  keeping  every  one  chirked  up  when  things 
promised  to  be  a  trifle  ponderous. 

"  Let's  be  ordinary  critters  and  fly  down  to  my  sky 
parlor  on  a  Fifth  Avenue  'bus,"  she  proposed.  "  I  pay 
the  fares,"  jingling  her  coin  purse. 

"  Oh,  no,  Polly,"  Thurley  interposed.  Thurley  did 
not  comprehend  what  Ernestine  had  tried  to  impress 
so  carefully  upon  her  —  that  Polly  was  not  yet  defeated, 
that  she  must  be  careful  lest  she  hint  of  the  opinions 
of  the  family  which  were  that  defeat  for  Polly  was 
inevitable. 

Polly  pursed  up  her  mouth  crossly.  "  Do,  Thurley, 
this  is  my  party,"  she  insisted,  after  which  Thurley  gave 

206 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

way  and  let  Polly  spend  two  precious  dimes  in  lordly 
fashion. 

As  they  proceeded  down  the  Avenue,  seated  on  the  top 
of  a  Washington  Square  'bus  and  quite  as  happy  as  when 
Ernestine  had  taken  them  out  in  her  motor,  Polly  said, 

"  I  haven't  had  the  chance  of  really  doing  anything  for 
you,  Thurley — " 

"  You  have,  too;  there  was  Sam  Sparling — " 

"  Yes,  but  no  one  is  like  Collin."  Her  face  was  illu- 
mined from  within.  Thurley's  dramatic  sense  caught  the 
wonderful  hopelessness  of  the  expression,  cold-bloodedly 
resolving  to  copy  it  in  any  role  which  should  demand  a 
similar  emotion.  "  Collin  is  the  most  wonderful  person 
in  the  world,  besides  being  the  most  wonderful  painter. 
I'm  so  glad  he  asked  us  out  for  Sunday.  He'd  have  done 
so  before  but  he's  terrifically  busy.  All  the  world  crowds 
his  doorstep  to  be  painted.  Fancy,  Collin  has  no  New 
York  studio  —  if  people  wish  his  work  they  must  come 
to  him  and  come  they  do.  When  you  see  Parva  Sed 
Apta,  you'll  understand  why  it  is  the  only  place  in  the 
world  of  its  kind  and  how  beautiful  and  good  is  Collin's 
own  self."  Polly  was  unconscious  of  her  betrayal. 

"  Is  he  as  wonderful  as  Bliss  Hobart?  Ernestine  says 
Collin  painted  Mr.  Hobart's  portrait  and  it  made  him." 

Polly  was  loath  to  give  up  her  argument.  ;<  Well, 
Bliss  is  wonderful  —  no  one  denies  that  —  but  in  a 
different  way.  There  are  so  many  sides  to  Bliss;  one  day 
he  is  a  hermit,  the  next  a  schoolboy,  then  a  stern  master, 
a  diplomat,  a  sarcastic  critic,  a  taskmaster  —  sometimes, 
very  rarely  of  late,  he  is  a  dreamer,  as  idealistic  as  the 
tints  of  the  skies  in  Collin's  pictures.  But  Collin  is  al- 
ways Collin,  a  child  with  a  talent  so  huge  he  does  not 
comprehend  it  himself  and,  therefore,  he  can  never  be 
spoiled." 

207 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"Has  he  never  married?"  Thurley  asked  innocently. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Polly's  answer  was  made  in  breathless 
haste,  "  he  never  thinks  of  such  a  thing  —  he  is  absorbed 
in  work  .  .  .  why,  if  one  is  his  friend,  it  is  all  one  should 
expect  ...  it  is  enough,"  she  added  bravely. 

"  Do  you  think  Caleb  Patmore  will  marry?  "  Thur- 
ley braced  her  little  boots  against  the  front  board  of  the 
'bus  as  they  rounded  a  bump  in  the  pavement. 

"  Not  unless  some  one  makes  Ernestine  realize  she  has 
a  heart  tucked  away  in  that  austere  bosom  of  hers.  .  .  . 
I  could  beat  Ernestine  for  not  loving  that  boy,"  and  the 
thought  of  Polly,  so  tiny  and  gentle  in  her  brown  garb, 
and  of  Ernestine,  stately  and  unapproachable,  in  some 
smoky  drapery,  made  Thurley  give  way  to  a  chuckle. 

"  Don't  try  it  unless  you  take  a  course  of  jiu-jitsu," 
she  advised. 

But  Polly  was  rambling  on  in  a  new  vein.  "  When 
Ernestine  returns,  she  will  take  you  to  Caleb's  house;  then 
you'll  see  how  a  famous  novelist  who  has  commercialized 
himself  lives  —  and  you  won't  like  it !  Every  June  Er- 
nestine visits  Caleb  and  generally  takes  me  as  ballast  — 
sort  of  grand  duchess  conferring  a  favor,  you  know. 
The  rest  of  the  year,  unless  Caleb  entertains,  he  has  to 
come  to  her  whenever  she  will  have  him,  starved  of  heart, 
yet  loyal.  (Of  course  if  people  care  they  do  stay  loyal) 
.  .  .  but  wait  until  you  see  Caleb's  sleek  establishment 
and  contrast  it  with  Collin's  transplanted  paradise." 

They  jumped  off  the  'bus  steps  and  made  their  way 
down  a  narrow,  side  street  which  was  most  distressingly 
dirty  to  Thurley's  mind,  reaching  a  dilapidated  brown- 
stone-front  house  with  "  Rooms  for  Rent  "  in  the  parlor 
windows.  Skipping  up  a  fire  escape  on  the  outside,  with 
Thurley  toiling  after,  Polly  opened  a  bit  of  a  window  on 
the  top  floor,  jumped  down  inside  while  the  boards 

208 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

creaked  perilously  and  then  assisted  Thurley  to  do  like- 
wise. 

"  I  never  go  up  the  inside  way  unless  it  is  winter,"  she 
explained,  "  because  every  poor  devil  would  stop  to  ask 
for  a  loan.  I  can't  refuse  unless  I'm  stony  broke  and  I 
can't  afford  to  part  with  the  little  I  have.  Of  course 
they  can't  pay  back,  poor  dears!  So  the  fire  escape  af- 
fords an  excellent  subterfuge  and  no  one's  feelings  are 
hurt.  I  want  to  take  Collin  a  book  on  woodcuts;  I 
found  it  at  an  old  bookstore  the  other  day."  She  was 
prowling  about  a  dusty  secretary,  opening  drawers  and 
failing  to  close  them. 

Thurley  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  aghast  at 
Polly's  attic.  Ernestine  and  Caleb  had  prepared  her  for 
it,  saying  with  almost  reproach  that  she,  Thurley,  was 
missing  the  glorious  camaraderie  with  failures,  she  was  the 
proverbial  jewel  in  the  rough  who  was  taken  to  an  expert 
lapidary,  cut,  polished  and  placed  in  platinum  without  any 
transitional  stage !  And  she  would  do  well  to  learn  more 
of  Polly's  life  so  as  to  glean  the  atmosphere  of  optimistic 
struggle,  humorous  cares  and  sometimes  indescribable 
pathos.  So  much  Thurley  did  in  the  moment  she  waited 
for  Polly  to  find  the  book  —  a  book  costing  a  week's 
earnings ! 

The  room  was  badly  in  need  of  repair;  the  roof  sloped 
down  so  Thurley  had  to  crouch  if  she  moved  but  a  foot 
either  way  —  it  reminded  her  of  Betsey  Pilrig's  attic. 
There  was  a  cot  made  into  a  divan  with  a  turkey  red 
covering  and  pillows,  a  scrap  of  a  rag  rug,  an  easel,  for 
Polly  did  commercial  drawings  fairly  well,  a  table  one 
confusion  of  doll  furniture  and  china  dolls  dressed  in 
wisps  of  silk,  satin  and  burlap.  Polly  explained  this  was 
her  "  tryout  " — when  she  was  planning  scenes  in  her 
opera,  she  had  the  puppets  assume  positions  so  as  to 

209 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

gauge  the  effect.  She  was  so  serious  about  the  matter 
that  Thurley  was  forced  to  conceal  a  laugh  as  she  said  the 
idea  was  excellent. 

"  I  have  no  typewriter;  did  have  last  winter,  but  I 
played  in  hard  luck  and  left  it  at  '  uncle's.' —  I  scribble 
almost  as  swiftly  and  so  it's  of  no  consequence,"  she  added 
contentedly.  "  Just  last  week  I  had  an  idea  and  I  think 
it  is  a  real  idea,  Thurley  —  as  you  are  to  sing  the  title 
role  I'll  tell  it  to  you.  Instead  of  having  THE  American 
opera  founded  on  the  landing  of  Columbus  and  a  ro- 
mance of  an  Indian  girl  with  one  of  his  knights  and  so 
on  —  of  course  I'll  finish  it  and  have  it  produced  later," 
she  supplemented  in  all  seriousness  — "  I  have  decided  to 
do  a  series  of  operas  dealing  with  American  wars.  First, 
the  Revolution  —  you  are  to  be  Moll  Pitcher  —  then 
1812  —  then  the  Mexican  War  —  the  Civil  War  —  the 
Spanish-American  —  pray  heaven  there  will  be  no  other. 
Don't  you  see  how  great  it  will  be  —  great  —  great?  " 
her  body  swaying  with  excitement.  "  Yesterday,  I  did 
two  arias."  She  fumbled  about  the  secretary  and  un- 
earthed music  paper  covered  with  startling  black  notes. 
"  Oh,  Thurley,  I  must  succeed  —  I  must.  I  won't  take 
no  from  either  gods  or  half-gods.  I'll  defy  them!  I 
won't  slink  away  and  become  an  upstate  saleswoman  for 
victrolas !  There !  " 

"  I  hope  you  will,"  Thurley  said  gently. 

"  You  say  that  as  if  you'd  like  to  add,  '  Here,  my  pore 
gel,  take  this  quarter  and  wear  a  cap  the  next  time  you 
meet  me !  '  Wait  —  wait  until  you  fail." 

Thurley's  spirit  was  roused.  "  But  I  won't  —  not  in 
my  work." 

"  There  are  other  ways  than  work  —  love,  for  in- 
stance? " 

210 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I  won't  fail  in  love,"  the  defiant,  wild-rose  Thurley 
was  always  on  hand  to  meet  a  challenge. 

"  Don't  promise  yourself  everything,"  was  Polly's  sage 
advice,  "  and  now,  I  believe  we  are  ready  to  decamp." 


211 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

She  found  Collin's  place  more  than  Polly  said,  since 
Polly  viewed  it  through  adoring  eyes  and  was  blind  to 
tiny  flaws. 

Their  approach  was  anything  but  conventional.  They 
had  raced  up  from  the  station,  Polly  winning  by  a  nose, 
hilarious  young  persons  with  flushed  faces. 

They  found  the  famous  Collin,  in  an  artist's  smock  of 
gray  chambray,  sweeping  off  his  front  steps !  Upon  see- 
ing them,  he  called  out, 

"  Cook  left  last  night  with  a  case  of  champagne  — 
there  are  all  the  dishes  to  wash  .  .  .  and  the  boy  left 
yesterday  morning  with  my  two  best  suits  —  oh,  ho,  art 
is  merely  incidental,"  continuing  his  sweeping  in  vigorous 
fashion. 

Then  he  dropped  the  broom  and  came  down  the  walk 
to  meet  them. 

His  garden  had  the  air  of  age  and  mystery.  The  fa- 
mous statue  of  Aphrodite  attributed  to  Praxiteles  was  in 
a  monolith  of  white  marble  lined  with  brass  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  small  fountain  which  paid  her  homage.  As 
soon  as  midsummer  came,  he  explained  to  Thurley,  there 
would  be  yellow  lilies  with  heavy  sweetness,  the  clean 
fragrance  of  shy  heliotrope,  creamy,  bending  tassels  of 
spiraea  forming  an  aisle  up  to  the  white  stucco  house 
with  its  contrasting  dark,  wooden  trimmings. 

But  when  they  entered  the  hall,  Thurley  gasped  with 
amused  dismay,  for  she  had  seldom  seen  such  conglomera- 
tion and  disorder.  It  was  true  there  were  pink  mar- 

212 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

bleized  walls,  tall  lapis  lazuli  pillars  capped  with  gold  and 
an  emerald  malachite  cornice  with  a  black  baseboard  in 
the  big  studio.  In  addition  to  the  collection  of  rare 
eighteenth  century  furniture  with  needlepoint  chairs  and 
blue  and  silver  hangings,  the  growing  plants  and  endless 
bird  cages  filled  with  twittering  English  bullfinches,  there 
were  strewn  carelessly  rare  Greek  vases  and  Etruscan 
fragments,  an  ugly  easel  and  modelling  stand,  spotted 
canvases  carelessly  lying  about.  On  chairs,  but  more 
often  on  the  floor,  were  jars  of  brushes,  rare  lithographs 
by  Whistler,  Puvis  de  Chavannes'  drawings,  Meryon's 
etchings  and  Conder's  painted  silks.  Half  finished  por- 
traits and  charcoal  outlines  of  figures  were  pinned  relent- 
lessly on  the  walls,  and  a  shaggy  Airedale  answering  the 
name  of  Fencer  came  muzzling  the  guests  in  suspicious 
welcome  and  walked  without  concern  on  all  of  the  treas- 
ures. 

The  only  books  the  room  contained  were  a  well  worn 
Bible  and  a  Human  Anatomy.  The  curtains  were  twisted 
back  into  hideous  shapes,  some  fastened  with  twine,  others 
with  artist's  thumb-tacks,  and  one  was  thrown  over  the 
cornice  in  gay  disregard. 

'  You  see,"  said  Collin,  "  I  never  should  have  yielded 
to  Caleb's  plea  to  have  an  artistic  studio.  By  degrees,  I 
have  managed  to  move  out  some  stuff  and  send  it  over  to 
his  lodge.  He  thrives  on  such  things  —  color  schemes 
and  doing  rooms  over.  But  some  fine  day  there  will  be  a 
bonfire  at  Parva  Sed  Apta  and,  hoop-la,  I'll  build  a  log 
cabin  with  nothing  but  glass  for  the  roof  and  sit  in  the 
midst  of  the  debris  to  paint  the  most  wonderful  pictures 
of  women." 

"  Poor  women,  posing  in  your  log  cabin."  Polly  pre- 
tended to  be  cross.  "  Now  we  must  get  this  room  to 
rights." 

213 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Never."  He  pushed  her  aside.  "  I'll  not  allow  a 
thing  to  be  straightened.  The  rest  of  the  house  is  like  a 
bandbox  and  I  spend  as  little  time  there  as  I  can.  But 
here  is  where  I  live." 

Fencer  lay  down  to  roll  over  an  etching  as  if  empha- 
sizing the  statement. 

"  Here,"  corrected  Collin,  "  is  where  we  live." 

"  Show  Thurley  Bliss's  portrait  and  then  we'll  do  up 
the  dishes  and  cook  our  dinner  —  a  fine  sort  of  host  you 
are." 

"  Cook  had  been  meditating  an  elopement  some  time  — 
a  gentleman  who  works  in  a  roundhouse,  I  believe,  has 
been  carrying  the  wedding  ring  in  his  pocket  for  days. 
The  boy  always  envied  my  suits  —  and  as  he  was  offered 
more  wages  to  go  to  Bermuda,  I  presume  he  thought  the 
suits  a  bonus  for  having  endured  an  artistic  atmosphere 
.  .  .  oh,  well,  I'll  call  up  the  agency  to-morrow  and  order 
a  fresh  supply;  they'll  stay  a  week  anyhow  and  that  takes 
me  through  the  dinner  I'm  supposed  to  give  on  Wednes- 
day—  well,  Thurley,  are  you  much  amused?  " 

They  were  walking  down  the  hall  into  his  drawing- 
room,  spick  and  span  by  contrast,  done  in  the  coolest  of 
grays  with  long,  glimmering  curtains  of  silver  damask, 
the  furniture  of  polished  magnolia  wood  with  a  yellow- 
topped  Italian  marble  console  and  many-branched  silver 
candlesticks.  The  only  ornament  in  the  room  was  Ho- 
bart's  portrait;  it  stood  on  a  great  easel  on  a  platform, 
curtains  halfway  veiling  it. 

Thurley's  heart  began  an  annoying  pit-a-pat  as  she 
sought  the  correct  light  in  which  to  view  it.  Polly  and 
Collin  each  taking  a  curtain  threw  them  back  together 
and  for  a  long  instant  Thurley  was  silent  as  she  looked 
with  eyes,  as  betraying  of  her  love  as  Polly's  had  been,  at 
the  wonderful  face  of  a  man.  It  was  a  man  who  had 

214 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

recently  left  happy  youth  behind  because  he  had  discov- 
ered it  to  be  disillusioning  and  had  taken  up  manhood 
with  no  disgruntled  attitude  of  resentment  nor  aggressive 
determination  to  win  by  trickery  but  with  ideals  —  ideals 
impossible  to  defeat  but  hidden  so  safely  from  the  world 
at  large  that  they  were  incapable  of  practical  expression. 
The  lips  smiled  of  love  and  sighed  for  regret  and  prayed 
for  all  the  universe  —  there  was  that  much  painted  into 
the  picture.  The  eyes  were  shining,  gray  eyes  showing 
the  art  of  putting  a  bad  ending  to  the  purpose  of  becom- 
ing a  good  and  fresh  beginning.  He  was  one  who  would 
try  to  practise  some  ancient  but  forgotten  unity  of  the 
human  race.  As  Thurley  stared  at  the  strange  face  with 
its  rare  smile  of  understanding,  she  recalled  the  Scotch 
legend  of  the  Wells  of  Peace  which  an  old  circus  clown 
had  told  her  of  years  ago. 

The  Wells  of  Peace,  so  the  clown  had  said,  were  Love, 
Beauty,  Dreams,  Endurance,  Compassion,  Rest,  Love 
Fulfilled!  All  the  "  little  people  "  of  the  hills  and  for- 
est, even  the  peewits  who  had  been  baseborn  children, 
were  searching  endlessly  for  the  Wells  of  Peace  —  for  he 
who  found  them  and  drank  of  the  water  could  wish  for 
anything  in  the  world  and  it  would  be  his ! 

"  Kiss  her,  Collin ;  that  will  make  her  speak !  Are  you 
turning  into  a  statue,  Thurley?  " 

Thurley  stirred  at  the  sound  of  Polly's  voice. 

Collin  was  holding  back  the  curtain  and  laughing  at 
her.  "  Never  knew  I  could  hold  a  pose  so  long,"  he 
said  as  he  dropped  it.  "  Why,  Thurley,  are  you  so  sus- 
ceptible to  an  old  brigand  like  Bliss?  Fancy  him,  now, 
walking  down  Piccadilly  and  humming, 

"  '  I'm  going  back  to  Lunnon, 

"  '  To  tea  and  long  frock  coats  ' —  and  a  bevy  of  peer- 
esses trailing  afterwards !  " 

215 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Thurley  let  the  actress  in  her  shield  the  woman.  She 
made  laughable  comments  about  the  portrait,  vowing  that 
the  color  scheme  of  the  room  had  given  her  new  ideas  for 
costumes,  going  through  the  rest  of  Parva  Sed  Apta  with 
a  careless  demeanor. 

The  dining-room  should  have  been  a  charming  spot 
with  its  green  English  chintz,  dead  white  walls  and  red 
and  gold  furniture,  but  it  was  heaped  with  soiled  dishes 
and  curious  cooking  utensils  piled  high  with  "  concoc- 
tions." 

"  I  had  a  fearful  appetite  the  moment  cook  left," 
Collin  explained,  "  so  I  thought  I'd  try  my  luck.  .  .  . 
They  all  tasted  queer  —  like  mixtures  of  carpet  tacks 
and  modelling  clay.  The  way  I  explain  it  is  the  excess 
paprika  and  I  had  been  modelling  and  neglected  to  wash 
my  hands." 

"  Oh,  good,"  Polly  interrupted.  "  Show  us  what  you 
were  doing,"  making  him  return  to  the  studio  to  rescue 
the  clay  model  of  a  bird  with  a  newly  broken  wing. 

"  Splendid,"  Polly  declared.  "  There  is  a  force  —  a 
stirring  —  il  y  a  quelque  chose/'  turning  to  Thurley  for 
approval. 

"It  hurts  to  look  at  it,  poor  little  thing!  It  must 
have  been  from  a  gun  and  not  an  accident." 

Collin  actually  blushed.     "  You  really  feel  that,  too?  " 

"  Of  course  —  see  how  the  wing  drags  —  oh,  why  not 
model  it  complete?  " 

Polly  gave  a  triumphant  whistle.  "  Always  told  him 
so.  I  wish  now  that  he's  oodles  of  money,  he'd  stop 
painting  fat  dowagers  and  silly  men  in  broadcloth  and 
model  —  model  what  he  dreams." 

Collin  wrapped  the  bird  in  the  moist  cloth.  "  You  are 
partial.  I  cannot  model  —  nor  can  I  tear  myself  away 
from  color.  I  dream  color,  woo  it,  I  could  eat  it  — 

216 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

now,  maybe  that  was  the  trouble  with  the  cooking  1  I 
was  trying  to  put  taupe  shadows  in  the  picture  of  the 
Hooker  children  .  .  .  anyway,  Thurley,  I  worked  as 
4  ghost '  for  the  great  Constantin  and,  after  seeing  his 
modelling,  I  never  even  fancied  I  could  do  likewise.  It 
is  merely  remembering  my  days  with  him  when  I  take 
up  the  clay,  sentimental  tribute  —  artistic  fashion  of 
drinking  a  toast.  He  had  but  one  rule :  '  When  you 
can  model  a  human  hand  as  large  as  the  top  of  your 
thumb,  you  can  model  anything,'  he  told  us.  ...  One 
day,  when  I  tried,  he  said  in  his  carping  old  fashion, 
'  Hein,  what  is  that,  Hedley?  A  hand?  So!  I  would 
mark  it  assaulted  toad !  '  And  I  never  tried  modelling 
again." 

He  seemed  anxious  to  dismiss  the  subject  and  show 
them  his  last  portrait.  As  he  talked  in  his  sweet,  light 
voice,  Thurley  watched  the  childlike,  tyrannical  way  in 
which  he  waited  for  praise  and  believed  all  they  said  of 
his  work.  He  was  seemingly  unconscious  of  Polly's 
hungry  heart  —  and  empty  purse  —  and  as  Thurley 
studied  him  she  realized  that  Collin  possessed  a  great 
virtue  —  and  a  great  fault. 

The  virtue  was  expressed  by  his  brilliant,  joyous  eyes 
which  told  her  his  was  the  sixth  sense  —  the  ability  to 
look  at  his  subject  and  say,  "  Ah,  I  won't  paint  in  the 
heartbreak,  it  would  be  too  cruel!  Just  pleasant  shad- 
ows," or  "  Shall  I  show  the  greed  which  made  you  play 
the  cad?  I  think  I  shall  —  it  needs  to  be  exploited  even 
if  you  did  buy  off  the  press,"  or  "  There  is  a  promise  of 
good  things  and  you  shall  have  them  painted  clearly  so 
that  when  you  look  at  yourself  you  will  feel  the  need  of 
living  up  to  that  promise  —  a  sort  of  jacking-up,  old 
man  —  with  your  slightly  weak  mouth  but  glorious  fore- 
head," or  "  You  are  young  and  beautiful  and  you've  the 

217 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

world  before  you,  but  I  shall  find  that  gray-gold  serious- 
ness of  your  woman's  soul  and  make  it  illumine  your 
face;  then  you  won't  go  getting  too  light  of  heart  and 
careless  of  tongue  —  as  you  might  with  the  flurry  of 
dimples !  "  So  the  world  had  come  to  speak  of  a  Hedley 
portrait  as  something  to  be  almost  fearful  of  —  it  was  so 
real  —  and  yet,  with  this  ability,  Thurley  admitted  as  the 
day  wore  on  with  their  playing  at  housekeeping  or  romp- 
ing in  the  garden,  drinking  black  coffee  while  Collin  and 
Polly  played  guitar  and  ukelele  duets,  Collin  remained  a 
child.  Whether  this  was  purposely  achieved  or  a  strange 
whim  of  Mother  Nature  was  yet  to  be  proved.  But  a 
child  he  was,  whimsical,  lovable,  worth  while  but  unsta- 
ble —  and  he  skillfully  shut  away  the  duties  of  maturity 
by  this  very  fact.  Collin  shirked  responsibility!  So  did 
Ernestine,  but  in  a  cynical,  combative  fashion.  Collin  did 
it  with  studied  innocence !  As  the  child  has  imagina- 
tion as  its  greatest  charm  and  asset,  so  did  Collin  claim  it 
for  his  own,  at  the  same  time  retaining  that  opinion 
of  women  which  the  child  possesses :  A  woman  has  but 
two  possibilities  —  tyrant  or  slave,  therefore  she  can 
never  be  his  equal.  The  child  regards  his  nurse  or 
mother  as  a  guardian  angel  or  an  unfair  oppressor  of 
rights,  and  so  Collin  chose  to  regard  women  —  staying 
aloof  from  entangling  romance ! 

He  called  Polly  his  pal,  said  with  admiration  that  she 
had  never  passed  out  of  that  flapper  period  when  every 
woman  wishes  she  had  been  born  a  boy,  therefore,  Polly 
was  a  delight  to  know!  He  helped  her  when  she  least 
suspected  it,  liked  and  admired  her,  but  he  kept  that 
armor  of  childish  irresponsibility  about  his  famous,  self- 
ish self  and  no  matter  how  keenly  he  might  gaze  into  the 
souls  of  those  he  painted,  his  own  soul  was  wrapped  in 
nursery  eiderdown  and  labelled,  "  Unwrap  me  and  you 

218 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

destroy  genius!  "  Polly,  like  all  women  who  love  but 
once,  understood  and  was  content  with  crumbs. 

"  I  shall  go  abroad  when  Ernestine  does,"  Thurley 
heard  him  saying  when  she  had  lured  Fencer  into  the 
garden  to  play  retrieve. 

"  I'm  so  glad  —  do  get  rested,  you  will  be  rushed  with 
orders  next  winter,"  Polly  answered.  Thurley  knew  just 
the  look  in  those  stabbed  brown  eyes ! 

"  What  will  you  do,  pal  mine?  " 

"  Be  tremendously  busy,  my  opera  scores,  naturally, 
and  for  a  pot-boiler  I've  hired  out  as  proofreader  during 
the  regulars'  vacations.  I'm  to  have  a  famous  summer." 
She  picked  up  the  ukelele  and  began  strumming. 

"  I'll  find  you  the  prettiest  mantilla  in  Spain,"  he  prom- 
ised, "but  don't  worry  if  you  have  no  letters  —  I  can't 
write  letters  any  more  than  a  woman  can  understand 
banking.  But  you'll  write  to  me,  won't  you,  Polly?  " 

"  Of  course  —  we'll  all  write,"  she  answered  bravely. 

Thurley  paused,  unmindful  of  Fencer's  bark,  and 
pondered  on  many  things,  the  portrait  of  the  real  Bliss 
Hobart,  the  man  who  was  worth  winning,  as  she  thought 
with  new  logic,  on  Miss  Clergy's  vow  which  cheapened 
any  love  no  matter  how  many  Lissas  might  argue  to  the 
contrary  —  unrequited  love  such  as  Polly's  —  on  Caleb, 
smug  and  amusing  and  much  in  need  of  Ernestine 
Christian's  heart,  on  Ernestine,  busy  with  scales  and 
cigarettes  and  pessimistic  utterances,  on  Sam  Sparling, 
who  had  told  her  during  one  of  their  happy  talks,  "  Be  a 
woman  first,  my  child,"  on  November,  with  the  prospect 
of  the  debut  .  .  .  well,  had  Dan  married  Lorraine  and 
was  it  true  that  a  man  was  nothing  short  of  a  hero  who 
married  a  brilliant  woman?  What  a  world  it  was  and 
wouldn't  it  be  a  relief  to  have  had  Ali  Baba  say  it  all  for 
her  with  his  usual:  "  Land  sakes  and  Mrs.  Davis,  but 

219 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

some  folks  are  going  to  be  mighty  nervous  when  it  comes 
Judgment  Day!  " 

At  that  identical  moment  in  Birge's  Corners,  Dan  and 
Lorraine  were  driving  through  the  Boston  Valley  hills. 
It  had  been  a  hateful  Sunday,  to  Dan's  mind;  service  in 
the  morning  and  himself  dancing  attendance  on  the  min- 
ister's daughter  when  all  the  time  he  longed  to  bolt  from 
the  church  to  escape  the  nasal  tones  of  Milly  Crawford, 
the  new  soloist  from  Pike.  He  wanted  to  sit  on  the  step 
of  the  box-car  wagon  in  sulky  retrospect.  But  in- 
stead, he  meekly  followed  Lorraine  into  the  parsonage 
and  ate  the  dinner  she  had  carefully  prepared,  smoking 
on  the  porch  while  Lorraine  "  did  up  the  work,"  and  now 
they  had  driven  the  best  part  of  the  afternoon,  returning 
for  the  monotonous  evening  service,  the  cold  meat  and 
jelly  tea  and  the  customary  Sunday  night  courtship  on  the 
vine-covered  porch. 

"  Dan,"  said  Lorraine  timidly,  one  hand  reaching  over 
to  feel  the  solitaire  on  the  other; — it  gave  her  courage; 
—  "  is  the  new  house  getting  on  all  right?  " 

He  turned  to  look  at  her;  she  was  such  a  frail,  pretty 
thing  in  her  silk  dress  —  three  summers  old  and  home- 
made at  that  —  her  eyes  were  raised  to  his  as  if  she  were 
a  good  heathen  looking  at  a  shrine  to  ask  the  granting  of 
a  boon. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  with  dangerous  gentleness.     "  Why?  " 
She  dropped  her  head.      "  I  was  just  wondering — " 
Dan  smiled;  the  savage,  buoyant  Dan  had  vanished. 
Fine,  hard  lines  were  about  his  mouth  and  his  eyes  were 
staring,  non-expressive.     Every  one  in  the  Corners  knew 
what  Lorraine  had  "  put  up  with  "  since  Thurley  Pre- 
core  had  given  him  the  mitten  and  he  had  engaged  him- 
self for  spite  —  the  weeks  when  Dan  drank,  Lorraine  for- 

220 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

giving  and  praying  over  him,  the  times  when  he  delib- 
erately ogled  other  girls  —  not  the  nice  girls,  either  — 
those  women  with  hard,  bold  eyes  who  always  live  at  the 
outskirts  of  any  small  town,  coming  in  Saturday  nights  to 
prance  along  the  streets  arm  in  arm,  making  every  one 
clear  out  of  their  way,  who  laugh  loudly  and  make  humor- 
ous comments  when  they  pass  travelling  men.  Dan  had 
not  only  talked  with  these  persons  —  he  had  taken  them 
driving  in  his  car. 

Still  Lorraine  had  refused  to  believe  the  reports.  She 
had  wept  her  tears  and  said  her  prayers  in  the  solitude  of 
her  room  with  only  the  hope  chest  as  confidant.  Then 
the  minister  talked  to  Dan  —  with  the  result  that  Lor- 
raine, with  unheralded  defiance,  came  into  the  room  dur- 
ing the  scene  and  told  her  father  she  was  Dan's  bespoken 
wife;  she  would  always  be  willing  to  "  bear  with  him." 

"  Seems  as  if  there's  nothing  he  can  do  to  get  rid  of 
her  except  hang  himself,"  was  the  village  verdict. 

'  'Course  he's  sweet  on  Thurley  —  and  whatever  is  she 
doing  all  this  time?  I  guess  Miss  Clergy  has  spent 
enough  money  to  teach  her  how  to  sing,"  would  be  the 
answer. 

Almost  indifferently  Dan  had  resigned  himself  to  his 
fate  and  the  new  house  began  to  near  completion. 

"  I  hope  he  won't  break  out  wild  after  they're  mar- 
ried," Ali  Baba  said. 

"A  Birge  never  married  no  woman  with  spirit;  they 
all  die  and  leave  a  son,"  Hopeful  used  to  answer. 

"  Well,  Thurley  knew  her  mind,  no  matter  if  it  was 
right  or  wrong,"  would  be  Betsey's  consolation. 

"  Would  you  like  to  be  married  this  fall?  "  Dan  finally 
asked  Lorraine  on  this  Sunday  afternoon. 

"  It's  a  little  soon,  but  I  guess  I  could  be  ready,"  she 
fibbed  according  to  feminine  custom. 

221 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  may  as  well!     Say  when." 

Lorraine's  cheeks  were  crimson  with  excitement. 
"November?" 

His  face  clouded.  November  was  a  semi-sacred 
month,  Thurley's  birth  month  —  but  then,  was  not  all  the 
village  sacred  because  Thurley  had  lived  there?  Where 
could  he  turn  without  a  haunting  memory,  what  person 
could  he  pass  without  recalling  some  incident  in  their  life 
together? 

"All  right  —  about  the  fifteenth;  I'll  be  ready  to  get 
away  then.  We'll  go  to  New  York  for  a  couple  of  weeks. 
Would  you  like  that?" 

Lorraine  nodded.  They  were  both  thinking  the  same 
thing:  suppose  fate  should  cause  them  to  meet  Thurley 
Precore? 

When  Dan  left  her  that  night,  kissing  her  dutifully 
and  saying  some  polite  thing  about  being  a  lucky  fellow, 
Lorraine  went  upstairs  to  the  little  hope  chest  and  began 
counting  over  her  woman's  trifles. 

"  Poor  Thurley,"  she  said  out  loud,  "  he's  mine  now 
.  .  .  and  he  will  learn  to  care." 

Dan  returned  to  the  Hotel  Button  and  went  up  to  his 
rooms.  He  sat  at  his  desk,  scribbling  on  a  bit  of  paper. 
Then  he  took  a  fresh  sheet  and  wrote:  "  Dear  Thur- 
ley  " —  but  nothing  else  suggested  itself. 

"  She  wouldn't  give  a  hoot,  you  poor  fool,"  he  told 
himself. 

Finally  he  tore  the  paper  up  and  whistling  with  utmost 
cheeriness  tramped  about  the  room  and  tried  to  take  an 
interest  in  planning  the  decorations  of  the  twenty-thou- 
sand-dollar house.  It  was  Thurley's  house  no  matter 
what  all  the  ministers  and  marriage  licenses  might  try  to 
prove  to  the  contrary. 

222 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Ernestine  returned  in  June  nervously  overwrought  and 
almost  petulant  at  having  to  wait  for  her  sailing  reserva- 
tions. Thurley  saw  a  new  sort  of  Ernestine  Christian, 
prophetic  hint  as  to  her  own  future  if  she  continued  with 
her  work. 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  until  we've  been  out  at  sea  for  a 
day,"  Ernestine  commanded,  "  then  I'll  be  a  lovely,  rosy 
thing,  the  jolliest  big  sister  ever,  and  I'll  play  the  rest  of 
the  summer.  Ask  Collin  —  he  knows.  Collin,  Bliss  and 
I  have  often  crossed  together,  and  when  we  went  aboard 
the  boys  seriously  considered  asking  the  steward  not  to 
place  us  at  the  same  table.  By  the  time  we  reached 
Havre  they  were  making  violent  love  to  me,  wondering  if 
their  own  eyes  had  played  them  false  in  the  beginning  of 
the  trip,"  after  which  she  unceremoniously  bundled  Thur- 
ley out  of  her  apartment. 

Thurley  accepted  the  hint,  as  she  had  plenty  to  do  in 
getting  Miss  Clergy's  summer  wardrobe  completed  and 
accompanying  her  to  a  rustic  lodge  in  the  Adirondacks 
where  she  would  drone  away  the  golden  summer  as  she 
wished.  Thurley  had  assumed,  perforce,  a  maternal  at- 
titude towards  Miss  Clergy;  she  was  even  dictatorial  and 
bullied  her  a  trifle  about  being  nice  to  other  elderly  per- 
sons who  invited  Miss  Clergy  for  tea  —  Thurley  had 
found  this  demeanor  to  have  excellent  results. 

Although  it  was  with  relief  that  she  left  the  ghost- 
lady  at  her  summer's  boarding-place,  it  was  with  regret 
as  well.  Thurley  had  begun  to  feel  that  Miss  Clergy 

223 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  belonged  "  to  her  as  she  had  always  tried  to  fancy  some 
one  somewhere  must  belong  to  her  if  she  would  only  be 
patient  long  enough. 

"  I  sha'n't  worry  about  you,"  Miss  Clergy  had  told 
her.  "  You're  the  most  satisfactory  thing  I  ever  owned." 
Unconsciously  she  had  spoken  the  truth.  She  did  regard 
Thurley  as  a  beautiful,  talented  sort  of  unsexed  person 
dependent  upon  her  for  existence.  Unselfish  affection 
never  entered  the  partnership.  She  wondered  why  Thur- 
ley had  turned  away  so  abruptly  as  she  spoke  and  pre- 
tended she  had  an  errand  outside  the  room. 

"  '  The  most  satisfactory  thing,'  '  Thurley  kept  re- 
peating as  the  car  wheels  turned  her  nearer  New  York 
and  the  coveted  trip  abroad.  "  '  The  most  satisfactory 
thing  ' —  and  I'm  an  '  amusing  thing '  to  Ernestine,  al- 
most as  amusing  as  Silverheels,  only  she  loves  Silverheels. 
And  I'm  an  '  interesting  young  thing  '  to  Bliss  Hobart, 
some  one  who  came  to  earth  knowing  how  to  sing  and  so 
he  is  spared  the  trouble  of  teaching  me.  And  I'm  a 
'  lucky  young  thing,'  as  Polly  says,  because  I've  the  chance 
she  has  not,  and  I'm  a  '  dangerous  young  thing '  to  Lissa 
because  Mark  Wirth  likes  me  —  oh,  if  she  knew  how 
often  he  sends  flowers  —  and  I  suppose  Caleb  thinks  me 
a  '  worth  while  young  thing  '  because  he  gains  hints  for 
a  new  heroine.  ...  I  want  just  to  be  some  one's  Thur- 
ley !  "  She  looked  at  the  hills  without  but  she  could  not 
see  them  distinctly  for  tear-blurred  eyes. 

When  she  reached  New  York  she  telephoned  Ernes- 
tine, only  to  be  told  she  could  not  sail  for  at  least  another 
week,  nor  did  Ernestine  wish  to  be  disturbed, —  Silver- 
heels  had  been  accidentally  killed  and  Ernestine  had  suf- 
fered a  nervous  collapse. 

Thurley  heard  the  news  rather  carelessly.  "  Too 
bad,"  she  had  said,  "  I  would  rather  he  went  out  quickly 

224 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

than  to  be  one  of  those  blind  little  creatures  that  are  a 
burden  to  themselves." 

"  You  don't  understand,"  Ernestine  answered  sharply. 
'  You  don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  am  taking  him 
west  to  an  animal  cemetery  and  I  shall  pick  out  a  hand- 
some headstone." 

Thurley  wondered  if  this  was  a  strained  sort  of  joke. 
"Really?"  she  asked. 

At  which  came  a  volley  of  reproaches  over  the  wire  to 
the  effect  that  most  assuredly  would  there  be  a  memorial 
for  Silverheels  as  well  as  a  headstone;  no  other  animal 
could  ever  take  his  place  nor  would  she  ever  allow  any 
other  animal  to  make  inroads  into  her  heart.  She  wished 
his  name  never  to  be  mentioned;  perhaps  Thurley  would 
develop  sufficiently  within  the  next  few  years  to  compre- 
hend that  animal  tragedies  were  the  hardest  to  bear! 

Which  left  Thurley  feeling  like  a  smacked  infant  not 
at  all  knowing  the  reason  for  the  smacking. 

The  hotel  suite  seemed  musty  and  in  bad  taste  as  she 
wandered  about  restlessly.  She  must  wait  now  until  Er- 
nestine chose  to  sail;  she  must  keep  away  from  her  and 
amuse  herself.  She  did  not  want  to  worry  Miss  Clergy 
with  writing  of  the  delay  and  she  had  closed  her  lesson 
books  with  an  eager  hand.  Polly  was  busy  doing  some 
sort  of  hack  work,  and  she  supposed  Collin  would  go  off 
to  Europe  on  the  steamer  they  had  planned  to  take. 
Anyway,  she  felt  a  shy  reserve  in  calling  him  up  to  find 
out. 

She  was  halfway  angered  at  being  forced  into  this  sub- 
missive attitude.  When  she  was  a  prima  donna  earning 
her  own  money  she  resolved  that  she  would  lead  her  own 
life  in  no  half  tones.  It  was  all  very  well  to  know  inter- 
esting, famous  persons  but  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  their 
thousand  and  one  peculiar  notions  and  erratic  actions  was 

225 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

another  matter.  She  noticed  that  Collin  respected 
Ernestine's  wishes  and  Ernestine  also  respected  Col- 
lin's.  Save  for  Caleb's  being  in  love  with  Ernestine 
and  thus  being  rendered  somewhat  helpless,  he  fol- 
lowed his  own  inclinations  and  permitted  Ernestine  to  do 
likewise.  No  one  dreamed  of  telling  Bliss  Hobart  what 
to  do  and  what  not  to  do  and  never  did  any  one,  although 
disapproving  of  Lissa,  contemplate  trying  to  reform 
her.  Mark  danced  as  he  would  and  lived  as  he  wished 
and  there  was  an  end  of  it.  And  who  in  the  wide  world 
had  more  latitude  than  Sam  Sparling,  who  flirted  with  a 
duchess  one  day  and  had  a  shop  girl  driving  in  his  car  the 
next,  giving  midnight  orgies  for  "  the  boys  "  and  sending 
them  packing  when  his  nerves  gave  warning  —  Sam  who 
flew  off  to  Lake  Louise  one  day,  recklessly  cancelling  en- 
gagements, and  returning  very  keen  for  the  green  room 
and  the  footlights  to  play  for  weeks  at  a  time  and  then 
"  hop  across,"  as  he  said,  to  Paris  to  rent  some  crumbling 
chateau  and  have  it  put  in  the  pink  of  condition  while  he 
was  engrossed  in  reading  and  rehearsing  a  new  reper- 
toire like  a  veritable  savant.  Lucky  Sam,  Lissa,  Mark, 
Ernestine,  Collin,  Caleb  —  all  of  them  for  that  matter ! 
Thurley's  lips  were  rebellious  of  expression  as  she  sat 
that  warm  June  morning  before  the  window,  looking  at 
the  Avenue  which  throbbed  with  personalities  each  bent 
on  its  own  way. 

She  registered  a  vow  that  she,  too,  would  acquire  a 
personality,  a  hobby,  a  "  phobia,"  an  intricate  set  of  nerves 
and  a  color  scheme  —  dear,  yes,  there  should  be  no  end 
to  her  "  dew-dabs,"  as  Hobart  named  them.  She  would 
even  have  her  own  perfume,  she  would  "  recommend  "  a 
certain  fabric  and  have  her  picture  taken  in  a  gown  of  it 
and  printed  in  a  leading  fashion  journal.  She  would  rule 
over  her  apartment  as  rigorously  as  these  others  ruled 

226 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

over  theirs;  she  would  evolve  a  distinctive  form  of  enter- 
tainment —  to  say  nothing  of  openly  indulging  in  moods 
and  sulks  and  wild  bursts  of  joy  —  and  cigarettes  and 
liquors  if  they  did  not  harm  her  voice.  This  should  be 
the  reward  for  these  snubbed  months  of  being  the  spec- 
tator, dependent  on  some  one  else's  bounty. 

There  likewise  came  an  impulse  not  worthy  of  the  real 
Thurley  —  nevertheless  it  came  as  strongly  and  with  as 
much  temptation  as  all  the  rest  of  her  tempestuous  plans. 
When  she  was  rich  and  famous  and  still  beautiful,  she 
would  return  to  the  Corners  to  haunt  Dan  Birge  as  he  had 
never  dreamed  a  woman  could  haunt  him.  She  would 
have  some  sort  of  romantic  interest  in  her  life  even  if 
she  had  given  her  pledge  to  Miss  Clergy  never  to  make 
the  hideous  mistake  of  marriage. 

As  she  sat  there,  some  one  tapped  at  the  door  and, 
running  to  open  it,  she  found  Caleb  Patmore  dressed  in 
motor  togs,  his  goggles  pushed  up  on  his  forehead  and 
a  linen  duster  buttoned  to  his  chin. 

"  I  suppose  you're  in  mourning,"  he  said  whimsically, 
"  or  have  you  insulted  Ernestine  by  suggesting  it  is  mad- 
ness to  swelter  in  town  another  week  while  she  interviews 
all  the  monument  makers  as  to  the  most  fetching  feline 
memorial?  " 

Thurley  gave  him  a  grateful  expression.  "  It  does 
seem  foolish." 

"  I've  been  banished  forever  from  her  presence  —  be- 
cause I  sent  no  flowers,"  he  laughed.  "  However,  she 
told  me  to  get  you  and  take  you  out  for  the  day  —  she 
can't  keep  her  June  day  custom  of  visiting  me  at  the  lodge 
and  you  are  appointed  proxy.  Come  along,  you  look 
ready  for  a  frolic." 

Thurley  raced  into  her  bedroom  and  tilted  her  hat 
over  one  eye.  "  My  word,  it  will  be  good  to  go  some- 

227 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

where.  Imagine  coming  back  from  the  mountains  bub- 
bling with  excitement  and  finding  the  trip  delayed  for 
days.  If  it  had  been  hours  I  would  not  have  minded  — 
but  days  — " 

"  And  you've  never  been  across,  have  you?  "  he  asked 
sympathetically. 

"  Oh,  never,"  she  answered  in  despair.  '  You  don't 
think  Ernestine  will  give  up  the  trip,  do  you?  " 

"  Not  as  bad  as  that,  because  she  has  persuaded  Collin 
to  wait  the  week  as  well.  It  might  be  worse.  All  set, 
are  you?  First,  I've  some  errands  and  then  we'll  shoot 
out  to  the  lodge  and  I'll  feed  you  the  best  strawberries 
floating  in  the  richest  cream  you  ever  tasted." 

Thurley  found  bromidic  enjoyment  in  Caleb's  country 
place.  It  was  refreshing  in  its  air  of  order.  She  felt 
that  to  be  a  commercialized  artist  had  compensations,  at 
least  it  enabled  oile  to  acquire  what  one  wished  of 
true  art  and  appreciate  it  all  the  more  by  contrast  with 
one's  own  attempts ! 

Returning  to  the  hotel,  she  found  a  note  from  Ernes- 
tine saying  she  had  "  come  out  of  it  "  sufficiently  to  en- 
gage passage  for  the  following  Tuesday  and  she  hoped 
Thurley  would  never  mention  Silverheels  to  her  nor  invite 
tragedy  herself  by  acquiring  a  pet. 

Thurley  lay  awake  that  hot  summer's  night  —  the  near- 
ness of  the  vacation  did  not  delight  her  over-much.  In- 
stead, she  was  thinking  of  herself  as  contrasted  with 
Bliss,  Collin,  Ernestine,  Caleb  —  even  Polly.  For  there 
was  a  difference  of  birthright  between  these  persons  and 
herself.  With  a  burning  sense  of  discontent  yet  enforced 
honesty,  Thurley  realized  that  she  had  in  herself  a  strain 
of  sturdy  peasantry;  these  others  were  more  gently  born 

—  there  was  a  difference  in  the  way  they  spoke,  dressed 

—  she  felt  too  superlative  and  over-insisting  in  compari- 

228 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

son.  She  wondered  whether  in  time  she  would  acquire 
the  atmosphere  of  gentle  breeding  which  these  persons 
possessed.  Lissa  had  somewhat  the  same  strain  as  her- 
self —  and  she  prayed  she  would  not  become  like  Lissa. 

The  difference  between  the  peasant  and  the  patrician, 
Thurley  concluded,  after  restless  reflection,  was  that  the 
peasant  cannot  endure  pain,  physical  or  mental,  as  well 
as  he  can  stand  hardships,  lack  of  the  niceties  of  exist- 
ence, whereas  the  patrician  can  endure  anguish  but  he 
cannot  tolerate  discomfort.  A  poorly  fitting  or  coarse 
gown  would  prevent  Ernestine  from  playing  her  best, 
whereas  Thurley  could  sing  in  calico,  standing  on  the 
steps  of  her  old  box-car  wagon.  Ernestine  could  "  res- 
cue "  herself  from  suffering,  a  sort  of  diking  away 
of  any  too  engulfing  emotion,  whereas,  if  Thurley's  heart 
was  aching  or  her  mental  state  disturbed,  she  would 
not  sing  —  she  was  like  a  wood  beastie  wanting  to  dart 
into  deep  forests  and  hide  indefinitely. 

Thurley  had  begun  to  long  for  ancestors,  she  admitted 
with  a  sigh;  to  possess  portraits  of  spinsters  with  crum- 
bling lace  fichus  and  slim,  white  hands  —  Aunt  so-and-so 
or  Grandmother  and  Grandfather  Precore !  She  wanted 
heirlooms,  some  tangible  evidence  of  a  family.  Winter 
circus  quarters  with  the  pretended  family  recalled  them- 
selves to  her  with  scant  comfort.  She  was  so  young  and 
promising  and  she  was  to  spend  her  life  singing  for  the 
world  and  not  for  any  one  loved  person  1  There  had 
been  Dan  who  wanted  her  to  sing  for  just  himself.  Had 
she  loved  Dan  as  Lorraine  did,  she  would  have  been 
content  to  have  it  so.  She  would  have  married  Dan 
by  now,  the  new  house  would  be  glowing  with  rosy 
shaded  lamps,  passers-by  would  halt  their  teams  to 
listen  to  Thurley  singing  to  her  husband  .  .  .  but  that 
was  not  the  way  it  was  to  be.  If  only  some  kind  spirit 

229 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

with  the  power  to  release  vows  and  wave  a  wand  to 
change  things  about  could  do  so  and  create  such  a  house 
as  Dan  planned  for  her  and  yet  have  Bliss  Hobart  be  its 
master  and  Thurley  its  mistress  —  how  very  silly  and 
stupid  would  New  York  and  opera  seem,  all  these  over- 
smart,  cynical  persons  with  self-consciousness  their  domi- 
nating note  and  selfish  egotism  their  guardian  angel! 
She  would  sing  for  her  husband  and  work  to  please  him. 
And  how  simple  was  the  big  rule  of  life,  Thurley  thought, 
as  she  sat  up  among  the  pillows,  sleep  the  furthest  from 
her  thoughts:  Love  some  one  and  have  some  one  love 
you  and  make  everything  else  resultant  and  interdepend- 
ent !  She  sank  back  slowly  —  for  she  had  promised 
never  to  marry  and  in  so  doing  it  had  come  about  that 
she  should  meet  the  person  whom  she  would  have  mar- 
ried had  he  been  a  steam-riveter !  Ernestine  and  Europe 
seemed  phantoms  —  she  was  not  interested.  Nor  was 
she  interested  in  Dan  and  Lorraine  and  their  future. 
She  was  unconscious  of  everything  except  that  Bliss  Ho- 
bart treated  her  for  the  most  part  impersonally,  disap- 
pearing without  explanation  although  the  Buddha  still 
stayed  on  his  desk. 

Mark,  Lissa,  Polly,  Sam  and  Caleb  saw  the  trio  set 
sail  —  as  gay  a  farewell  as  one  could  imagine,  with  Lissa 
in  a  costume  indicating  that  she  had  achieved  social  dis- 
tinction and  Polly  with  her  funny  epigrams  and  humor- 
ous antics,  clever  mask  for  her  aching  heart.  Mark  had 
sent  Thurley  a  basket  of  roses  which  were  to  be  de- 
livered that  evening,  but  which  the  steward  stupidly 
hauled  to  light  before  Lissa's  eyes. 

"  You  better  play  safe,"  Caleb  murmured  to  Mark 
who  was  hanging  over  Thurley's  chair  and  refusing  to 
notice  Lissa's  efforts  to  get  him  away. 

"  One  doesn't  see  a  girl  like  Thurley  off  for  her  first 

230 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

trip  across  every  day,"  Mark  answered.  "  Anyway, 
she'll  not  be  bothering  with  any  of  us  in  a  year's  time; 
she's  destined  to  have  a  coronet  on  her  handker- 
chief." 

Sam  Sparling  had  made  Thurley  count  inkstains  on 
his  fingers,  which  he  had  obtained  by  writing  letters  of 
introduction  to  his  friends  scattered  in  France  and  Eng- 
land. Collin,  who  was  in  a  fearful  stew  about  having 
left  behind  his  pet  kit  of  brushes,  fumed  up  and  down 
the  deck  with  Caleb  reminding  him  that  there  were  shops 
in  Paris. 

Polly  stood  towards  the  rear  of  the  group  as  they 
were  given  their  shore  warning. 

"  Good-by,  Polly  —  a  world  of  luck!"  Collin  said 
easily. 

"  Good-by,  Collin  —  the  same  to  you !  " 

"  Good-by,"  Ernestine  called  out.  "  When  you  see 
me  next,  I'll  be  known  as  Thurley's  chaperone  —  I'm  sub- 
merging my  personality!" 

"  Good-by  —  America,"  a  sudden  childish  fear  took 
possession  of  Thurley. 

A  chorus  of  jeers  answered  her.  "  Really?  Well, 
nothing  like  being  impersonal  first  to  last.  ...  I  say, 
Thurley,  if  you're  not  more  polite,  we'll  go  buy  a  locket 
and  each  chop  off  a  lock  of  hair  and  stick  inside.  How 
would  you  like  that  for  an  albatross?  " 

"  Good-by,  Americans,"  she  corrected,  "  it's  just  — 
just—" 

"  Sing  it,"  suggested  Polly. 

Without  ado,  Thurley  began  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  caus- 
ing waving  handkerchiefs  to  be  pressed  to  eyes  and  every 
one  aboard  to  ask  who  the  tall  girl  was  with  the  glorious 
voice  and  if  she  was  to  sing  at  ship's  concert? 

Ernestine  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  the  song  ended 

231 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

and  Thurley,  abashed  at  the  furore,  sank  down  in  her 
steamer  chair.  Harsh  tug  whistles  took  up  the  burden 
of  noise. 

"  You'll  learn  not  to  waste  your  songs,"  was  all  Ernes- 
tine said. 


232 


CHAPTER  XX 

Thurley's  debut  was  the  night  of  November  sixteenth, 
nor  was  it  Marguerite  as  she  fondly  hoped  but  as  Roslna 
in  "  The  Barber  of  Seville,"  the  role  which  she  had  so 
often  sung  during  her  lessons  with  Hobart  and  in  which 
she  felt  scant  interest. 

Returning  with  breathless  memories  of  the  beloved  Old 
World  as  skilfully  shown  her  by  her  famous  couriers, 
Thurley  had  waited  with  equal  breathlessness  to  find 
Bliss  Hobart  who  had  not  sent  her  so  much  as  a  penny 
post  card  during  her  weeks  abroad. 

She  found  him  keen,  alert,  the  personification  of  energy 
but  as  noncommittal  as  to  his  summer  as  the  sphinx,  an- 
noyed at  some  of  Thurley's  mistakes,  a  hint  of  nervous- 
ness at  daring  to  bring  her  out  so  soon  —  in  short,  a 
taskmaster  with  scant  time  for  jokes  or  confidences.  In- 
deed, Thurley  found  herself  snubbed  by  the  entire  family; 
they  had  their  parties  without  her,  explaining  that  she 
needed  her  time  for  study  and  preparation.  Even  Miss 
Clergy,  who  was  refreshed  from  her  summer,  became  a 
mild  sort  of  "  goader-on."  As  the  hour  for  her  triumph 
drew  near,  she  was  irritable  and  impatient  if  Thurley 
wandered  away  for  a  walk,  was  five  minutes  late  or  said 
her  headache  prevented  a  lesson. 

It  was  annoying  to  have  a  grownup,  cynical  world  sud- 
denly center  its  interest  on  Thurley,  the  wild-rose  Thur- 
ley who  had  basked  in  the  Old-World  beauties,  responding 
to  French  vivacity,  "  toning  in,"  as  Collin  said,  to  the 
mellowed  charms  of  Spain  and  feeling  at  home  directly 

233 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

upon  reaching  London.     Thurley  longed  to  tarry  on  in 
Europe  a  year,  she  had  told  Ernestine. 

"  It  makes  me  feel  unprepared;  I  see  how  very  new  and 
crude  I  am."  But  Ernestine  had  planned  their  schedule 
without  thought  as  to  Thurley's  wishes,  so  on  they  went 
with  Thurley  learning  how  to  travel  and  speak  her 
French,  to  dress,  to  practise  all  the  things  the  social  sec- 
retary had  labored  to  impart.  She  sent  back  imprac- 
ticable trifles  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  Fincherie,  writing 
to  Miss  Clergy  dutifully,  and  mentally  writing  whole 
volumes  to  Bliss  Hobart  yet  seldom  mentioning  his  name 
aloud. 

So  passed  her  summer.  And  after  the  weeks  of 
preparation  there  came  a  reaction,  a  bored  languor,  in- 
difference to  her  success.  Dreams  seemed  dead  and 
visions  vanished;  the  girl  Thurley  who  had  exchanged 
love  for  a  career  was  some  one  else;  surely,  she  had 
never  heard  tell  of  her.  At  the  present  moment  she 
was  in  a  veritable  squirrel  cage,  racing  after  what  seemed 
unattainable  fame;  she  had  so  many  persons  to  suit,  so 
many  persons  waited  to  hear  and  criticize  her  and  yet 
there  was  only  one  person  whom  she  really  wished  to 
please.  He  had  told  her  quite  forcibly, 

"  As  soon  as  you  are  nicely  launched,  Thurley,  I've  a 
contralto  from  Argentine  whom  Baxter  has  in  tow  — 
stocky  build  and  will  have  to  bant,  but  she  has  an 
organlike  voice  and  can  do  wonders  in  Wagner  — 
only  she'll  take  time  which,  thank  fortune,  you  did  not." 

This  Thurley  took  as  a  personal  expression  of  relief 
and  she  went  away  more  bored  and  numbed  than  ever, 
thoroughly  insolent  to  all  who  crossed  her  path  that 
day.  Ernestine  herself  could  not  have  achieved  it  better. 

There  was  the  introduction  to  the  stage*  itself  and 
her  future  associates.  Thurley  thanked  heaven  for  blase 

234 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

indifference  at  that  time.  She  conducted  herself  at  re- 
hearsals with  the  poise  of  a  diplomat  and  when  she  sang 
the  impassioned  love  scene  in  the  singing  lesson  of  "  The 
Barber  of  Seville  "  she  almost  laughed  at  the  famous 
tenor  who  irritably  accepted  this  role  with  a  "  so-great- 
nobody,"  as  he  mockingly  informed  Thurley,  rushing  off 
to  meet  his  last  affinity  and  be  properly  comforted. 

She  began  to  see  the  truth  of  Lissa's  prophecy  regard- 
ing the  life  of  opera  singers.  Yet  this  anesthesia  of 
indifference  spared  her  harsh  emotions  or  critical  judg- 
ments. She  was  merely  keeping  her  pledge,  she  told  her- 
self night  after  night  when  she  was  finally  alone  with  her 
thoughts. 

All  of  which  won  her  the  title  of  conceited  and  spoiled 
and  certain  to  fail.  Bliss  Hobart  saw  her  ruse  and  kept 
his  own  counsel;  Miss  Clergy  thought  it  her  eternal 
triumph  over  personal  affection  and  whispered  to  Thur- 
ley of  her  satisfaction.  And  when  the  great  night  of 
nights  came  and  Thurley,  as  unconcernedly  as  if  she  were 
at  the  old  meeting  house  on  a  Sunday  morning,  stood  and 
accepted  curtain  calls  and  baskets  of  flowers,  trying  not 
to  remember  the  tenor's  repeated  comment,  "  You  so- 
great-nobody,  you  been  drinking  witches'  broth," — 
Thurley  knew  she  had  succeeded.  Her  debut  was 
ended.  Hereafter  she  was  free  to  command  her  own 
life  —  life  was  really  beginning  for  her  anew,  since  it 
had  temporarily  stopped  the  day  she  left  the  Corners 
and  these  strange  people  had  lived  it  for  her  in  a  vi- 
carious fashion.  Now  that  she  had  won  fame  —  with 
the  loss  of  love  —  she  had  won  freedom  and  she  was 
Thurley  Precore,  prima  donna ! 

After  the  last  act,  when  Thurley's  dressing-room  was 
a  buzz  of  animated  conversation  and  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  almost  sickish,  when  her  new  maid  fluttered  nerv- 

235 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ously  about  and  Bliss  Hobart  came  in  to  say,  "  I  knew 
you  would  —  so  there's  nothing  to  exclaim  about,  is 
there?" — and  all  the  sisters  of  the  press  clamored  for 
"  a  word,"  with  others  crowding  about  and  looking  prop- 
erly animated  and  delighted,  Miss  Clergy  whispered, 

"  My  darling,  how  proud  I  am,"  and  Thurley  recoiled, 
she  knew  not  why. 

"  A  finer  bridegroom  than  Dan  Birge,"  the  ghost- 
lady  was  murmuring,  "  fame !  He  is  the  finest  bride- 
groom of  all  —  fame,  Thurley  —  and  I'm  so  proud  of 
you!" 

Naturally  there  was  a  "  party  "  which  Thurley  actually 
dreaded  since  she  felt  she  could  not  yet  assert  her  in- 
dependence. She  was  like  a  gay  young  eaglet  chained 
and  longing  to  soar  where  she  would!  Yet  she  must  sit 
quietly  and  be  praised  and  petted,  the  object  of  excessive 
sentiments,  just  as  family  birthday  dinners  are  a  signal 
for  numberless  indulgences.  Thurley  was  eager  to  have 
done  with  the  unusual,  to  live  as  she  wished  to  live. 

That  first  opera  was  a  distinct  blur,  just  as  the  re- 
hearsals were  blurs  as  soon  as  they  ended.  She  real- 
ized she  had  jeopardized  her  liberty  in  a  psychic  fashion 
and  given  her  word  to  certain  things.  She  had  finally 
served  her  apprenticeship  and  was  now  liberated.  Why, 
she  had  sung  Rosina  just  as  she  had  often  sung  lullabies 
to  tired  children  or  for  Philena.  Stupid  world  —  God 
gave  her  a  voice  as  He  did  brown  hair  and  blue  eyes,  to 
herself  belonged  no  credit.  Yet  here  they  sat  about  Bliss 
Hobart's  elegant  supper  table  —  Ernestine  in  her  blue 
and  gold  and  leopard  skin  gown  and  Caleb  beside  her, 
Lissa  in  startling  cerise  and  jet  trying  to  call  Thurley 
"  my  darling  child  "  and  honeycomb  her  jealousy  of  Mark 
who  ogled  her  in  silly  fashion.  There  was  Miss  Clergy, 
the  real  perpetrator  of  it  all,  who  kept  staring  at  her 

236 


JHE  GRAY.  ANGELS 

protegee  in  almost  rude  fashion,  trying  to  realize  that  she 
had  finally  achieved  her  revenge !  That  was  food  and 
drink  enough.  Bliss  Hobart  was  at  Thurley's  right 
hand,  a  manager  at  her  left;  there  were  some  critics  and 
society  satellites  who  had  succeeded  in  being  invited;  Sam 
Sparling  appeared  with  a  girl  on  each  arm,  as  he 
flippantly  explained;  while  Thurley  was  a  radiant  but 
indifferent  goddess,  "  the  yellow  peril,"  according  to 
Caleb's  description,  in  her  brocaded  frock  with  trimmings 
of  silver.  So  they  drank  her  health  and  sang  her  praises 
and  all  the  time  the  wild-rose  part  of  her  laughed  at 
them  because  she  had  not  done  her  best  nor  anything  to 
her  mind  which  was  unusual.  In  a  different  fashion, 
she  had  merely  "  sung  for  her  supper  "  as  she  had  once 
done  in  Birge's  Corners! 

When  she  reached  the  hotel,  Miss  Clergy  wanted  to 
talk  and  gloat,  in  truth,  over  the  evening's  event. 

But  Thurley  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  tired;  even  night- 
ingales do  nest,"  she  said,  picking  up  some  letters. 

They  were  mostly  begging  for  trade  from  modistes  and 
milliners  but  one  in  a  scraggling  writing  was  post-marked 
"  Birge's  Corners." 

Thurley  opened  it.  After  a  moment  she  said  in  an 
even  voice,  "  They  are  well  and  Ali  Baba  has  made  a  new 
stormshed  for  the  front.  .  .  .  Dan  and  Lorraine  were 
married  two  days  ago."  Then  she  went  into  her  room, 
blowing  Miss  Clergy  a  hypocritical  kiss. 

She  was  ashamed,  as  she  lay  down  to  sleep,  that  in- 
stead of  thinking  of  her  newly  acquired  freedom  and 
success  she  was  envying  Dan  Birge  and  Lorraine.  Not 
even  the  sob  sisters  of  the  press  would  have  guessed 
what  the  new  and  incomparable  prima  donna  thought  on 
the  night  of  her  debut.  It  concerned  neither  her  throat 
troubles  nor  her  complexion,  her  possible  suitors  nor  her 

237 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

coming  wealth.  But  the  question  asked  itself  time 
without  end:  u  Is  it  better  to  spoil  one's  youth  than  to 
do  nothing  with  it?  " 

That  same  evening  Dan  and  Lorraine,  ill  at  ease 
in  their  overpowering  hotel  suite  eight  squares  away 
from  Thurley's  hotel,  had  faced  somewhat  the  same 
query.  For  they  had  come  to  New  York  directly  fol- 
lowing their  wedding  to  spend  a  restless  day  with  Thur- 
ley's memory  pursuing  them  like  a  ghost. 

Then  Lorraine  dared  to  voice  the  matter.  "  The 
paper  says  Thurley  will  sing  to-night,"  she  ventured. 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  I'd  like  to  go,"  Dan  answered. 

They  dropped  the  subject  and  spoke  of  the  bromidic 
details  concerning  the  wedding  gifts,  what  to  do  with 
duplicates  and  the  color  of  the  living-room  tapestry 
suite  and  the  beauty  of  the  Queen  Anne  walnut  dining 
room  furnishings  which  every  one  said  were  in  better 
taste  than  mahogany,  the  new  house  with  the  wonderful 
fixtures,  the  electric  plugs  for  lamps,  the  revolving  ice 
box,  the  white  range,  the  pergola  and  sun  parlor  and 
the  iron  deer  which  was  ordered  but  not  yet  arrived. 
How  happy  two  young  mortals  could  have  been!  Be- 
sides, there  was  the  butler's  pantry  —  heaven  knows  why 
it  was  dubbed  butler's  pantry  in  the  Corners  —  and  the 
garage  with  a  washing  rack,  if  you  please!  Then  there 
was  the  wedding  itself  —  a  proper  chrysanthemum  wed- 
ding with  three  bridesmaids,  a  matron  of  honor  and  a 
ringbearer.  Lorraine's  father  had  married  them  — "  so 
sweet  "  as  every  one  agreed  —  and  the  church  was  a 
bower  of  blossoms  while  the  wedding  cake  was  in  white 
boxes  with  the  initials  of  the  bride  and  groom  entwined 
in  gold.  Lorraine's  wardrobe  had  been  the  only  meagre 
thing  and  that,  Dan  generously  said,  would  soon  be 

238 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

remedied.  He  had  ordered  a  shower  of  orchids  for  her 
to  carry  and  given  her  a  sunburst  of  diamonds,  while  her 
wedding  ring  broke  all  Birge's  Corners'  precedents,  for 
it  was  a  platinum  circlet  dotted  with  diamonds.  The 
Corners  did  not  know  whether  or  not  to  approve  this  last. 
It  was  "  going  some,"  the  younger  generation  said,  and 
the  recently  married  girls  boasting  of  plain  and  a  trifle 
ponderous  gold  bands  said  that  they  wouldn't  feel 
respectably  married  with  that  funny  kind  of  a  ring,  but 
then  Lorraine's  father  being  a  minister  and  every  one 
present  at  the  church,  they  supposed  it  was  all  right  — 
every  one  had  her  own  ideas. 

Lorraine  wore  a  new  dress  to  the  opera,  one  she  had 
bought  that  morning.  Not  yet  accustomed  to  her  hus- 
band's generosity,  she  had  visited  a  second-rate  shop  to 
obtain  the  slimsy  blossom  pink  silk  with  cheap  trimming. 
She  had  only  her  travelling  coat  of  dark  wool  for  a  wrap 
and  a  stupid  hat  breathing  of  home  millinery. 

She  knew  Dan  was  not  pleased.  As  she  looked  at 
him  in  his  tuxedo  she  realized  that  she  was  not  yet  "  used 
to  being  rich";  she  would  buy  the  goods  for  dresses  and 
make  them  herself,  she  could  then  have  so  many  more. 

"  Will  I  do  for  to-night?  "  she  asked  timidly,  knowing 
the  contrast  between  herself  and  Thurley  would  be  cruelly 
unfair.  She  winced  from  it  as  any  woman  would  wince 
from  having  to  sit  beside  the  man  she  loved  while  he 
watched  the  woman  of  his  heart  appear  in  beautiful 
triumph !  Besides,  Lorraine  had  never  been  to  a  theater, 
her  father  not  approving;  she  was  nervous  lest  she  make 
some  embarrassing  faux  pas. 

"  Yes,  no  one  knows  us  in  New  York,"  he  said  care- 
lessly. 

Then  they  watched  Thurley  in  all  her  loveliness  come 
on  the  stage  in  her  Rosina  costume  of  red,  yellow  and 

239 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

black  lace.  Lorraine  glanced  at  Dan  as  Thurley  sang 
and  triumphed  and  sang  again  and  triumphed  more  and 
the  people  near  them  kept  asking  who  she  was.  Lor- 
raine, with  her  pitiful  bargain  frock,  her  unpowdered  face 
and  awkward  bonnet,  knew  that  a  shadow  had  fallen  be- 
tween Dan  and  herself  —  Thurley's  shadow  —  no  longer 
a  wild  rose,  generous  and  kindly  of  heart,  but  a  prima 
donna,  the  woman  that  Dan  would  love  hopelessly  for- 
ever and  a  day. 

She  applauded  Thurley  generously,  turning  her  wist- 
ful face  to  Dan's  to  say,  "She  is  lovely,  isn't  she?" 
But  Lorraine  knew  that  not  even  the  new  house  with  its 
furnishings  nor  her  wedding  ring  nor  the  diamond  sun- 
burst could  still  all  the  pain  of  knowing  that  she  had 
been  "  married  for  spite  ";  she  might  be  the  most  tender 
wife  and  excellent  housekeeper  in  the  world  yet  she 
was  not  Thurley,  lovely,  tyrannical!  And  as  she 
watched  the  opera  with  Thurley  its  dominating  note  and 
Dan's  moody  face  now  defiant,  now  almost  glad,  she 
recalled  the  superstition  about  women  who  married 
Birge  men, —  meek  little  creatures  they  were  who  lived 
only  long  enough  to  bear  a  son  and  then  smiled  content- 
edly and  were  snuffed  out  into  the  unknown ! 


240 


CHAPTER  XXI 

At  first  fame  was  good  to  have,  there  was  no  mistak- 
ing it.  For  Thurley  achieved  delightful  freedom  by  the 
magic  of  her  success.  She  began  to  do  all  she  had 
planned  during  her  novice  period,  to  try  this  or  that 
sort  of  costume,  to  give  "  affairs,"  if  you  please;  she  cul- 
tivated a  hobby  and  a  "  phobia  "  and  acquired  a  smart 
wire-haired  terrier  called  "  Taffy  "  whose  picture  was 
featured  in  all  the  leading  newspapers  and  musical 
journals. 

It  did  not  take  her  long  to  readjust  herself  to  this  new 
life.  Older,  tired  persons  who  had  played  godmother 
and  godfather  to  her  during  her  apprenticeship  watched 
her  in  amusement.  Not  that  Thurley  ceased  to  apply 
herself  to  work;  she  was  untiring  in  her  efforts,  for  she 
felt  she  would  never  want  to  stop  learning  new  and 
more  difficult  things.  Nor  did  she  stop  knowing  any 
one  save  those  who  could  be  of  use  to  her.  Instead  there 
was  exhibited  a  refreshing  democracy  of  spirit  which 
governed  her  likes  and  dislikes. 

Bliss  told  Caleb,  "  She's  a  pleasant  little  Trojan 
and  one  can  see  at  a  glance,  save  for  amusing  whims,  she 
is  as  reliable  as  a  grandfather's  clock."  And  he  told 
Thurley,  who  hovered  about  hoping  for  some  personal 
understanding  or  praise, 

"  Just  be  sincere  and  everything  else  trues  up  —  and 
don't  grow  plump  like  Lissa,  because  banting  is  an  awful 
bugbear." 

At  which  Thurley  tossed  her  newly  laurel-crowned 

241 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

head  and  determined  to  try  artifice  to  make  him  pay  her 
attention.  After  all,  these  fads  and  fashions  were 
merely  antidotes  to  make  her  forget  the  thing  she  craved 
foremost  —  Bliss  Hobart's  real  friendship.  So  she 
ordered  lavishly  of  whatsoever  she  chose,  moving  with- 
out delay  into  an  apartment,  with  Miss  Clergy  tottering 
contentedly  after.  It  was  a  personal  triumph  for  Miss 
Clergy;  with  Thurley  it  was  only  the  natural  result  of 
having  been  born  a  singer. 

"  I  have  my  own  ideas  for  my  apartment,"  she  told 
Ernestine  with  patronage,  even  waving  aside  Lissa's  sug- 
gestions for  a  "  love  of  a  boudoir  —  just  the  place  for 
proposals  "  and  returning  Mark's  offering  of  a  gilt  mirror 
because  it  did  not  harmonize  with  her  color  scheme! 

"  Let  her  play  away,  she'll  tire  of  it,"  Sam  Sparling 
said  indulgently,  when  Polly  dropped  in  at  the  theater 
to  recount  Thurley's  latest  exploit,  the  purchase  of  an- 
tique Egyptian  jewelry  which  she  was  to  wear  in  "  Aida." 

"Have  you  seen  her  apartments?"  asked  Polly. 
"  Not  like  Thurley  at  all.  I  associate  her  with  real 
mahogany  and  open  fireplaces  —  rose-garden  things." 

"  I'll  blow  up  that  way  to-morrow  afternoon,"  Sam 
promised. 

Which  he  did  —  only  to  be  amazed  himself  at  the 
effect  Thurley  had  managed  to  create.  Her  living  room 
had  a  blue  floor,  a  blue  arch  and  lapis  lazuli  colored 
pedestals.  There  was  a  turquoise  satin  fire  screen,  a 
globe  of  blue  Bristol  glass  and  the  walls  and  ceilings 
were  done  in  rich,  silver  leaf  paper  with  impossible  gilt 
furniture  set  at  futurist  angles  throughout  the  apart- 
ment. Apricot  linen  curtains  threw  a  strange,  mellow 
glow  on  the  black  dining-room,  the  walls  being  brocaded 
black  velvet  with  red  alabaster  bowls  on  tripods  and  a 
riotous  futurist  frieze  running  about  the  room.  There 

242 


were  side  tables  of  audacious  rose-red  marble  and  the 
dining  table  and  chairs  were  polished  ebony  while  an  onyx- 
like  mantel  boasted  of  silver  bowls  heaped  with  glass 
colored  fruits. 

Sam,  who  knew  no  restraint,  came  rapping  boldly  at 
the  door  of  Thurley's  own  room,  after  an  astonished 
stroll  through  the  apartment. 

A  chic  maid  opened  the  door  with  the  properly  startled 
expression  always  registered  in  Caleb's  novels. 

"  I  say,  Thurley,  you've  done  yourself  proud,"  Sam 
lounged  in  the  doorway  to  view  the  white  Empire  furni- 
ture with  elaborate  gold  scroll,  the  blue  velvet  hangings, 
the  cabinet  of  slippers  and  hair  ornaments  arranged,  no 
one  knew  why,  not  even  Thurley  herself,  as  if  for  dis- 
play. 

Thurley,  who  was  preparing  to  take  dinner  at  the 
Hotel  Particular  with  half  a  dozen  new  and  decidedly  un- 
conventional creatures,  tried  to  look  indignant. 

"  You're  a  monster,"  she  said  as  she  shook  her  finger 
at  him  in  imitation  of  Lissa.  At  which  Sam  burst  out 
laughing  and  vowed  he  would  have  her  for  his  leading 
lady  no  matter  if  he  had  to  send  Bliss  flying  off  yon  cliff. 

'  You  ridiculous  child,"  spoiling  her  dignity  completely, 
"  who  in  the  world  started  you  to  shake  fingers  in  old 
beaux'  faces?  And  dressing  like  the  adventuress  in 
'.Lights  o'  London'?  Do  put  on  your  rumpled  blue 
serge  and  let's  go  for  a  drive !  " 

Thurley  swept  by  him  in  indignation,  Sam  following 
and  side-stepping  her  train.  She  wore  a  band  of  black 
jet  in  her  carefully  dressed  hair  and  a  gown  of  black  to 
match,  over  which  was  a  long  cape  of  unspotted  ermine. 

She  stood  beside  the  piano  to  draw  on  her  gloves.  "  It 
isn't  fair  to  scold  in  front  of  a  new  maid,"  she  said, 
"  and  contradict  me  or  not,  Sam,  I  am  grown  up.  I  can't 

243 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

go  about  like  a  flapper  or  keep  on  living  in  a  hotel." 

"  What  does  Miss  Clergy  say?  "  Sam  balanced  him- 
self first  on  his  toes  and  then  sank  back  on  his  heels. 

"  She  smiles,  nods,  agrees  and  never  wants  me  to 
repay  her.  But,  joy  of  joys,  I  can.  For  I'm  going  to 
be  rich  —  really  rich  and  I'm  young;  I  have  years  in 
which  to  dash  about  without  a  thought  as  to  rest  or  di- 
gestion. Don't  you  approve?"  She  finished  buttoning 
her  gloves  and  proceeded  to  open  a  florist's  box  critically 
to  take  notice  of  a  corsage  of  yellow  tea  roses. 

"  Mark  does  send  such  ultra  things,"  she  complained 
languidly.  At  which  Sam  Sparling  nearly  upset  himself 
by  overbalancing  and  then  came  up  to  take  hold  of  her 
shoulders  as  if  she  were  a  small  boy  in  need  of  a  troun- 
cing. 

"  Young  lady,  let  an  old  beau  give  a  word  of  advice. 
They  say  a  word  to  the  wise  is  sufficient  and  you  were, 
formerly,  wise  and  apple-cheeked  and  delicious.  We 
all  adored  you.  To-day  I  feel  I  ought  to  call  you  Lady 
Vere  de  Vere  and  tuck  intriguing  notes  in  that  corsage, 
all  that  sort  of  thing  .  .  .  my  dear,  play  away,  for  it's 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  but  don't,  oh,  don't,  Thurley,  let 
it  supersede  the  real  you.  I  remember  Ernestine  Chris- 
tian had  a  whirl  at  it  when  she  first  came  into  prominence. 
Dear  yes,  jewels  and  furs  that  every  woman  envied  — 
flirtations  —  a  bit  psychological  were  her  flirtations  as  I 
remember;  she  particularly  went  in  for  Hindu  poets  and 
consuls.  But  flirtations,  nevertheless !  Then  she  used 
to  give  all  manner  of  absurd  parties  —  there  was  one 
in  London  that  laid  me  up  a  fortnight.  It  began  with  ice 
cream  and  cordials  and  ended  with  the  Lord  Mayor  of 
London's  own  turtle  soup  —  had  it  sent  over  by  gold 
braided  beadles  and  so  on.  You  had  to  eat  each  course 
a  different  spot.  You  were  kept  on  the  move,  so  to 

244 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

speak.  I  remember  munching  my  alligator  pear  some- 
where near  the  Tower  of  London,  only  to  be  whisked 
off  to  Whitechapel  to  be  set  up  directly  with  the  neatest 
sort  of  a  game  plate!  Well,  she  tired  of  playing  that 
way  and  one  day  she  appeared  at  my  dressing  room  in 
a  rough  tweed  suit  and  a  felt  hat  saying, 

"  '  Sam,  I've  buttered  buns  in  this  hamper  and  pale, 
schoolboy  sherry.  Let's  walk  until  we're  so  hungry  that 
we'll  sit  down  and  eat  like  beggars  —  and  I  can  make 
a  proper  confession  of  what  a  fool  I've  been  I ' 

Thurley  tried  not  to  laugh  and  succeeded  in  command- 
ing an  unbecoming  frown.  "  Well,  you  didn't  try  to 
restrain  her,"  she  insisted. 

"  Ernestine  is  a  different  type.  I'm  afraid  you 
wouldn't  look  at  mere  Hindu  poets  or  consuls." 

'What  of  yourself?" 

"  Hands  up,  I  confess.  I  had  a  passion  for  coaching 
tours  and  those  horrible  alderman-like  banquets.  I 
seemed  to  be  tremendously  popular  with  the  buds  —  I 
was  cad  enough  to  keep  all  their  letters  for  a  long  time. 
When  they  began  to  have  grandchildren  send  me  notes 
saying,  '  Granny  says  to  ask  if  you  remember  the  time 
you  played  Romeo  and  so  and  so  ' —  I  stopped  being  such 
a  great  house,  ordered  health-last  shoes  and  got  a  line  on 
the  really  reliable  sanitariums.  But  you,  Thurley," — 
The  old-beau  aspect  of  himself  seemed  dimmed;  he  ap- 
peared a  fatherly  old  gentleman  rich  in  experience  and 
therefore  wise  in  judgment.  She  felt  like  a  naughty  child 
who  has  been  discovered  while  parading  in  her  mother's 
finery.  She  could  not  have  told  why,  but  she  felt  arti- 
ficial, as  if  she  should  be  on  the  stage  of  the  opera  house 
singing  her  heart  away  in  some  lavish  role  —  as  Violetta 
in  "  Traviata  "  for  instance  —  but  not  as  Thurley  Pre- 
corel 

245 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  You'd  even  make  me  believe  there  was  no  Santa 
Claus,"  she  protested,  the  actress  in  her  rallying  to  her 
support.  "  Don't  tell  me  to  don  a  pinafore  and  become 
interested  in  botany!  It's  such  fun  to  play  —  and  so 
new;  none  of  you  seem  to  realize  that."  Here  she  trailed 
off  into  silence,  busy  with  her  own  thoughts,  Mark's 
corsage  slipping  from  her  fingers. 

She  was  remembering  Dan  and  Lorraine  and  the  day 
the  child  Thurley  and  Philena  pledged  to  be  missionar- 
ies, the  advent  into  the  Clergy  mansion  as  a  madcap  mis- 
chief, the  singing  in  Betsey's  parlor  that  momentous  June 
day,  the  quarrel  with  Dan,  the  wonderful  journey  to  the 
city  with  the  ghost-lady,  then  Bliss  .  .  .  here  the 
thoughts  ended  and  she  found  herself  thanking  Sam  for 
returning  her  corsage. 

"  As  for  this  sort  of  thing,"  the  old  actor  finished, 
pointing  at  the  corsage,  "  you'll  have  many  of  them  — 
but  choose  wisely  and  for  all  time.  Don't  waste  time 
on  worthless  phantoms;  remember  '  To-morrow  feeds  on 
yesterday.'  Even  if  you  fancy  you  are  merely  playing 
at  being  a  '  grand  lady,'  and  that  you  yourself  are  un- 
spoiled and  truly  great,  think  of  the  bon  mot:  '  Imita- 
tion is  sincerest  flattery,'  and  do  not  ape  Lissa  any  more 
than  you  can  help." 

"  None  of  you  understand,"  she  cried,  rebelliously. 
"  I  shall  do  as  I  wish  and  live  as  I  choose  —  as  you  have 
all  done." 

"  Look  at  us  and  take  warning,"  ended  Sam  promptly. 
"  Well,  if  you  get  crowded  to  the  wall,  call  on  me.  I'll 
be  about."  After  this  he  went  on  his  way  undecided 
whether  or  not  merely  to  admire  Thurley  as  another  dear 
charmer  on  whom  his  heart  had  undeniably  been  frittered 
away  or  to  take  her  seriously  as  if  she  were  a  hope-to-die 
ward  given  into  his  guardianship. 

246 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Meanwhile,  Thurley  went  on  to  the  dinner  party  re- 
membering Sam's  audacity  with  annoyance  intermingled 
with  delight.  There  was  and  always  will  be  to  every 
woman,  if  she  is  honest,  a  rare  charm  in  being  treated 
as  a  little  girl.  White-haired  matrons  delight  in  being 
named  u  girl  "  and  being  told  by  some  one  a  trifle  whiter 
of  hair  and  more  numerous  of  birthdays:  "  My  child, 
what  in  the  world  are  you  dreaming  of?  "  It  is  a  harm- 
less notion  with  which  every  woman  is  endowed. 

Thurley  was  born  more  or  less  of  a  woman,  so  that 
Sam's  attitude  appealed  to  her.  But  the  peacock  which 
is  also  in  all  women  and  the  love  of  domination,  remnant 
of  glorious  idol  worship,  made  her  reject  his  halfway  of- 
fered protectorship. 

It  was  wonderful  to  dress  in  rich  fashion,  to  have  Mark 
take  her  to  some  bohemian  table  d'hote  —  like  that  of  the 
Petispas  Sisters  —  to  know  she  would  be  the  handsomest 
and  best-dressed  person  there  and  that  Lissa  was 
helplessly  furious  at  Mark's  new  object  of  adoration,  yet 
obliged  to  smile  instead  of  snarl  in  Thurley's  presence. 
It  was  fun  to  read  letters  from  unknown  admirers,  to  have 
schoolgirls  with  vast  ambitions  and  opinions  of  their 
abilities  appeal  to  her,  as  well  as  embryo  tenors  from 
small  towns  who  only  needed  a  gracious,  sisterly  hand  to 
guide  them,  and  press  agents  out  of  a  job  who  were 
capable  of  the  greatest  scheme  for  procuring  public  in- 
terest that  ever  alarm-clocked !  Thurley  was  just  real- 
izing the  parasites,  so-called  artistic,  who  beg,  steal  or 
demand  their  living  from  those  who  really  work  and 
earn  one.  She  was  beginning  to  classify  the  large  army 
of  restless  rebel  women  who  really  delude  themselves  into 
believing  they  have  a  mission  in  life,  badgering  all 
those  who  simply  do  the  work  they  were  intended  for. 
These  women  interested  Thurley.  She  regarded  them 

247 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

as  one  views  a  new  member  of  the  zoo,  poking  sticks  at 
them  through  the  bars  when  the  guard  is  not  alert. 

She  had  listened  to  these  creatures  tell  their  woes  with 
childish  audacity;  she  liked  their  superlative  mode  of 
expression  rendering  their  case  hopelessly  weak  and  in- 
sincere, she  was  amused  by  the  comic  opera  fashion  in 
which  they  dressed  or  the  masculine  over-emphasis  in 
costume  details.  There  were  women  of  the  pale,  willowy 
type  — "  misunderstood  "  was  their  slogan.  There  were 
the  bold,  aggressive  women  who  despised  sentiment  and 
who  longed  to  prove  to  men  that  they  were  truly  a  non- 
essential  race,  who  grew  so  enthusiastic  over  what  they 
could  do  for  one  Thurley  Precore  as  her  advance  agent, 
companion,  secretary  and  so  on  that  Thurley  fully  ex- 
pected them  to  bark  or  walk  up  the  wall,  as  she  told 
Ernestine.  There  were  women  of  the  dreamy,  neurotic 
type  who  never  mentioned  mother  back  in  Oshkosh  still 
cooking  "  three  squares,  a  day  "  for  her  houseful  of  board- 
ers in  order  that  Myrtle  or  Poincianna  might  have  a 
winter  in  New  York  in  which  to  study  design!  Design 
was  right  —  but  not  as  mother  fancied  it  was ! 

Oftentimes  Thurley  felt  she  must  stop  playing  a  part 
—  mischievous  young  person !  —  and  say  to  these  mis- 
guided rebel-dolls  that  they  were  fortunate  in  having  just 
plain  folks,  to  have  any  one  really  belonging  to  them  — 
a  vista  of  forbidden  joys  would  open  before  her  blue  eyes 
as  these  "  hysterical  hikers,"  as  Bliss  Hobart  had  named 
them,  told  her  of  how  they  had  come  away  from  the 
sordid,  uninteresting  atmosphere  which  strangled  their 
inner  selves  and  they  were  willing  to  go  hungry  —  all  the 
great  ones  had  gone  hungry  —  to  deny  the  fleshpots  if 
they  might  only  achieve  —  might  win  the  laurel !  After 
the  large  flow  of  language  when  called  upon  to  demon- 

248 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

strate  their  abilities,  they  would  warble  in  a  reedy  so- 
prano: 

The  vi-o-let  loves  the  pans-y 

FOR  —  the  robin  told  me  so-o-o- 

Or  else  they  would  use  a  coal-bin  contralto  to  inform 
Thurley  all  about  the  Lost  Chord  and  ask  if  they  did 
not  remind  her  of  Clara  Butts ! 

It  was  a  merry  life,  because  Thurley  had  not  reached 
the  stage  of  acknowledging  that  she  had  nerves.  She 
revelled  in  this  court  of  appeals  from  which  the  others 
fled. 

Caleb  had  reached  the  neurasthenic  stage  where  he 
wanted  a  periscope  attached  to  his  porch  so  he  could  spot 
approaching  authors  laden  with  a  manuscript.  Every 
time  a  young  author  did  brave  the  portcullis  and  obtain 
an  audience,  only  to  ask  Caleb  if  there  really  was  not 
everything  in  a  name  —  editors  were  so  mean,  anyhow, 
and  every  one  said  so,  and  if  Caleb  would  permit  his 
novel,  which  every  one  said  was  the  American  novel, 
too,  to  be  printed  under  Caleb's  name  and  thus  play  a 
roaring  joke  on  these  haughty  and  unfair  editors,  why, 
he  would  go  fifty-fifty  on  the  royalties  —  every  time  this 
happened  to  Caleb,  he  promptly  disappeared  on  a  cham- 
pagne debauch  and  refused  to  express  any  penitence  what- 
soever concerning  it! 

Or  if  Collin  was  held  up  by  a  young  woman  with  a 
badly  powdered  nose  and  a  thatch  of  flaxen  hair  hiding  all 
her  features  save  the  nose  and  was  asked  if  she  could  not 
be  his  inspiration,  Collin  lost  no  time  in  rewarding  him- 
self for  the  ordeal.  His  bags  were  packed,  and  his  motor 
was  at  the  gate,  even  if  the  president  of  a  steel  trust  was 
due  for  a  portrait  sitting.  Away  he  flew  over  hill  and 

249 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

dale  like  a  startled  rabbit,  reaching  some  rural  inn  where 
art  consisted  of  framed  lithographs,  and  here  he  lay  in 
hiding  until  his  disposition  had  sufficiently  recovered  to 
allow  his  return  as  a  smiling,  bow-tie-waving  artist,  brush 
poised  for  action ! 

Therefore  the  family  regarded  Thurley's  liking  for 
the  onslaught  of  hysterical  hikers  as  a  sort  of  puppy 
soap-chewing-and-distemper  stage. 

"  Let  it  run  its  course,  they  all  do,"  Hobart  said  when 
it  was  reported  to  him.  "  She'll  grow  weary  of  auto- 
graphing photographs  and  of  having  every  would-be 
genius  from  the  wilds  of  Oregon  try  to  crowd  into  a 
basket  and  land  on  her  doorstep  —  a  songbird  foundling 
cuckooing  its  misunderstood  little  life !  " 

There  was  something  about  these  women  which  faintly 
roused  the  reformer  in  Thurley.  They  were  simply  out 
of  step,  she  insisted,  her  own  little  feet  always  marching 
to  the  bandwagon  without  question.  They  needed  to  be 
shown  the  inspiration  which  can  be  gained  from 
mediocrity.  Although  they  were  humorous  and  a  trifle 
pathetic,  they  were  dangerous,  to  Thurley's  mind. 

"  What  havoc  they  could  raise !  "  she  said  to  Hobart 
one  afternoon.  "  They  would  be  capable  of  playing 
gnome  at  sane  and  settled  doorways  and  calling,  '  Leave 
your  tasks  —  come  out  —  come  out,'  and  a  great  many 
would  follow  them.  They  are  seething  with  discontent 
and  they  have  the  determination  which  keeps  them  going, 
yet  they  do  not  tell  themselves  the  truth;  they  magnify 
home  wrongs  and  future  glories  and  their  own  possibili- 
ties. And  I  think,"  she  added  with  a  frank  smile,  "  they 
have  either  never  been  loved  by  any  one  or  else  loved 
some  one  who  did  not  love  them.  It's  a  form  of  roman- 
tic insanity  which  causes  them  to  denounce  love  when  all 
the  while  they  crave  it  —  insane  persons  always  turn  on 

250 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  ones  who  love  them  best.  So  these  dear,  queer  girls 
and  women,  trying  to  avoid  routine  work  and  home  folks, 
just  need  to  have  Cupid  take  their  telephone  number  and 
he  could  accomplish  the  miracle  of  miracles." 

Chuckling,  Hobart  had  taken  his  leave.  The  next 
afternoon  he  surprised  Thurley  with  a  call,  handing  her 
a  bouquet  of  charming  wine-colored,  white-specked  blos- 
soms surrounded  by  cool  fern. 

She  did  not  thank  him;  instead  she  flushed  and  the 
blue  eyes  grew  two  shades  deeper  blue. 

"  I  thought  you'd  be  terribly  set  up  over  an  old-fash- 
ioned '  bow  pot.'  '  Hobart  was  rather  mystified. 

"I  am;  you  chose  cleverly."  Thurley  hated  herself 
for  betraying  displeasure. 

"  Why  don't  you  like  Early  Morning  Brides?  They 
used  to  be  my  mother's  favorite;  she  sent  to  America  for 
seed  and  we  had  one  walk  lined  with  them."  Hobart 
looked  like  the  small  boy  who  had  blundered  into  de- 
livering the  love  note  to  the  green  grocer  and  the  green 
grocer's  order  to  the  loved  one ! 

Thurley's  face  had  cleared  magically.  "  Oh,  is  that 
the  name  you  know  them  by?  "  dimples  twinkling  in  her 
cheeks.  "I  —  I  thought  it  something  else." 

"  What?  "  determined  to  solve  the  mystery. 

"  A  silly  name,  very  likely  I'm  wrong  —  anyway, 
you're  a  dear  and  here  they  go  into  my  best  vase  and  on  to 
my  best  table  !  " 

Later  in  the  day  Hobart  took  time  to  retrace  his  steps 
to  the  old  florist.  He  asked  if  Early  Morning  Brides 
had  ever  been  known  by  another  name. 

"  Well,  some  do  call  'em  Old  Maids'  Pincushion,"  the 
man  told  him,  "  but  I'm  one  as  has  no  liking  for  the 
namel  " 


251 


CHAPTER  XXII 

During  the  winter  Thurley  tired  of  the  hysterical  hik- 
ers, since  they  increased  in  number.  They  did  not  bother 
with  such  persons  as  Lissa  or  Mark  or  Polly.  And 
Hobart,  who  was  acknowledged  to  be  the  personification 
of  public  opinion,  was  immune  from  the  pest.  By  de- 
grees Thurley  realized  why  Lissa  was  not  bothered  —  be- 
cause Lissa  herself  was  a  hysterical  hiker  developed  to 
the  stage  of  a  near-genius;  such  transformations  are  too 
often  wrought  these  days.  Like  recognizing  like,  she 
was  severely  let  alone.  As  for  Mark  —  when  Thurley 
thought  of  him  she  found  herself  sitting  down  in  a 
nearby  chair,  deaf  to  the  world  about  her.  There  was 
no  denying  that  if  Lissa's  theories  regarding  artists' 
privileges  were  true  and  her  theories  of  life  ethical,  her 
exponent  of  them,  Mark,  was  a  sorry  example.  Mark 
was  rapidly  becoming  a  selfish  neurasthenic;  his  better  self 
died  hard,  it  is  true,  but  dying  it  was.  Although  the 
actress  part  of  Thurley  delighted  in  the  unwise  excite- 
ment of  a  flirtation  with  some  one  else's  property,  the 
real  Thurley  looked  askance  at  the  changes  being  swiftly 
wrought  in  the  boy,  his  over-emphasis  on  petty  detail 
concerning  his  comfort,  his  ill  humor  at  minor  happen- 
ings which  were  not  as  he  had  wished,  his  sluggishness 
regarding  work — the  critics  began  to  hint  he  was  too 
bulky  of  figure.  More  and  more  did  he  bask  in  Lissa's 
salon,  drink  and  eat  unwisely,  taking  her  raggings  about 
the  "  so-great-nobody  "  with  humorous  unconcern,  quite 
positive  of  his  own  power  to  fascinate  and  offset  Lissa's 
tempers. 

252 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Foppish  dress,  lack  of  humdrum  duties,  home  ties  — 
there  had  been  an  aunt,  Thurley  learned,  who  had  raised 
him  and  of  whom  he  was  now  ashamed.  She  lived  meekly 
retired  in  the  little  white  house  in  Connecticut  and  Mark 
sent  her  money,  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  send, 
and  her  name  was  never  mentioned.  His  press  agent 
had  a  most  fetching  story  about  his  mother's  being  a 
Turkish  girl  who  escaped  from  a  harem  and  his  father 
a  Grecian  nobleman  and  Mark's  having  been  educated 
in  Moscow  and  Berlin,  whereas,  in  the  real  heart  of 
the  man,  there  was  the  spirit  which  could  be  reverent  and 
proud  of  his  aunt's  toilworn  hands  with  prominent  pur- 
plish veins  and  knotted  fingers,  of  the  simple  white  house 
and  the  everyday  living  which  had  given  him  the  con- 
stitution to  endure  the  not-everyday  living  he  now  em- 
braced. 

When  Thurley's  press  agent  had  woven  similar  ro- 
mances concerning  herself,  she  refused  to  let  them  ap- 
pear, saying  with  a  simplicity  worthy  of  an  older,  wiser 
woman,  "  I  am  Thurley  Precore,  an  American.  You 
may  tell  of  the  box-car  wagon  and  those  funny  things  of 
my  childhood  and  my  decision  not  to  marry  but  have 
a  career,  but  please  do  not  tell  what  is  an  untruth,"  at 
which  the  press  agent  had  elaborated  these  details  un- 
til they  were  scarcely  to  be  recognized  and  printed  the 
story  surrounded  by  a  string  of  heartbroken  and  de- 
spairing bachelors  of  every  type  who  were  wailing  that 
life  meant  nothing  as  long  as  this  new  diva  had  chosen  a 
career  instead  of  love. 

One  March  afternoon,  after  Thurley  had  created  a 
new  furore  as  Senta  in  "  The  Flying  Dutchman,"  her 
social  engagements  crowding  her  with  a  vengeance,  three 
things  occurred  the  same  muggy,  windy  day  which  im- 
pressed themselves  mightily  on  her  mind. 

253 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

She  had  had  Mark  in  for  tea,  clandestinely,  since  Lissa 
was  giving  a  musical  and  had  invited  both  of  them.  Miss 
Clergy  had  gone  for  her  usual  drive  and  Thurley  had 
donned  corn-colored  silk  with  silver  trimmings  and  a 
new  set  of  cameo  jewelry  to  exercise  her  powers  of 
fascination. 

Ernestine  was  on  tour  and  Polly  Harris  had  temporar- 
ily disappeared  from  the  horizon,  particularly  Thurley's, 
because  the  latter  had  innocently  had  the  bad  taste  to 
try  to  help  her  openly.  Collin  was  in  Washington  to 
paint  the  president's  portrait  and  Caleb  in  Europe  rap- 
idly burning  up  the  earnings  of  his  last  year's  book. 

The  opera  season  was  near  completion  and  Thurley 
and  Miss  Clergy  were  casting  about  where  to  spend 
the  summer,  the  press  agents  urging  some  unusual 
spot  which  should  furnish  them  with  autumn  copy  —  a 
submarine  boat  or  the  Sahara  desert!  The  naming  of  a 
cigar  for  her  and  an  invitation  to  sing  at  the  dedication  of 
a  great  church  had  been  the  events  of  the  week  while 
banners  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue  announced  that  she 
had  made  a  record  of  her  "  Aida  "  aria,  "  O,  del  as- 
suerri "  for  a  prominent  talking  machine  company.  As 
the  loveliest  and  youngest  singer  of  her  day,  with  Eu- 
rope flirting  with  her  managers  to  hear  her  and  America 
plying  her  with  dollars  to  keep  her  at  home,  Thurley 
wondered  how  it  would  seem  to  have  some  new  pink- 
and-white-cheeked  girl  with  an  even  greater  voice  than 
hers,  bluer  eyes  and  brighter  hair,  come  slipping  into 
the  opera  field  as  she  had  done.  She  wondered  if  she 
could  be  half  as  gracious  as  these  tired-faced  men  and 
women  who  welcomed  and  hated  and  pitied  her  all  in 
one! 

She  glanced  sideways  in  a  glass  and  added  mentally, 

254 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  You've  a  long  road  ahead,  anyway,"  while  Mark 
droned  on  in  impossible  platitudes. 

A  maid  brought  a  card  and  Thurley  read  the  name, 
Hortense  Quinby.  Underneath  was  written,  "  Please 
see  me,  very  vital." 

"  Run  along,  Mark,"  she  commanded.  "  You've  told 
pretty  fibs  long  enough.  Do  go  to  Lissa's  recital.  You 
must  stop  travelling  on  such  thin  ice  as  long  as  you  are  de- 
termined to  be  a  slug." 

"  That's  no  fair."  Mark  tried  to  take  her  hands  but 
she  drew  away. 

"  How  do  you  like  these  cameos?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Let  me  get  you  lovelier  things.  There  ought  to  be 
jewels  just  for  you  and  no  one  else  —  a  Thurley  design 
in  pale  gold  — " 

"  Spare  me  I  There  is  a  front-laced  Precore  corset,  a 
Thurley  ginger-ale  and  a  Thurley  Precore  perfecto  cigar, 
as  well  as  a  Thurley  perfume  and  vanishing  cream  —  why 
torture  me  any  further?  " 

"  Because  I  like  you.  I  don't  know  why  I  don't  say 
love  you,"  his  handsome  face  flushing,  u  but  you're  not 
the  sort  to  say  that  to  unless  a  chap  has  earned  the  right. 
How  a  pair  of  eyes  can  change  everything  one  has  made 
up  his  mind  to  say!" 

"  I'll  cover  them  with  my  hands,"  she  teased. 

"  No,  they'd  shine  through  at  me  —  true  blue  always 
does.  So  I'll  just  say  like  —  and  make  you  admit  you 
return  the  sentiment.  If  it's  only  liking  each  other, 
Thurley,  there's  no  harm!  " 

"  I  like  you,  but  I  don't  approve  of  you,"  she  admitted, 
"  and  I'd  rather  you  didn't  come  to  see  me  when  you 
ought  to  be  with  Lissa." 

"  If  she  had  some  one  she  liked  better  than  me,  she 

255 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

would  not  remember  such  a  word  as  loyalty,"  he  began 
impulsively. 

"  No  fair  —  run  along  and  do  take  some  exercises. 
You  look  aldermanic." 

Reluctantly,  he  rose.  "  Why  see  every  stray  female 
from  nowhere?  I  used  to  when  I  took  life  and  art 
seriously.  It  grew  to  be  a  bore  and  I  never  see  any 
one  now.  Even  if  the  Jap  does  steal  more  than  his 
wages,  I  keep  him  because  he  knows  how  never  to  open 
the  door  for  any  one  but  the  laundry  and  the  liquor 
agents." 

"  I  see  them  because  it  is  a  novelty,  as  people  see  me 
because  I  am  one,"  she  said  soberly.  "  Some  day  the 
people  and  I  will  stop  both  customs.  .  .  .  Good-by, 
Mark  —  my  apologies  to  Lissa  and  I  shall  see  her  soon." 

Hortense  Quinby  proved  to  be  a  "  hysterical  hiker  " 
—  one  concluded  that  from  her  pale,  rather  quick  face 
and  over-severe  mode  of  hair-dressing.  She  had  an 
untrimmed  floppy  hat,  a  bright  green  walking  suit  that 
had  seen  better  days  and  a  severe,  gentlemanly  cravat 
throttling  her  chin.  There  was  an  attempt  to  have  a 
professional  air  by  carrying  a  leather  portfolio,  but  one 
could  not  have  told  whether  she  was  a  travelling  manicure 
or  secretary  to  a  professor  on  Egyptology! 

She  was  not  a  young  woman  nor  was  she  middle-aged; 
perhaps  the  look  of  discontent  in  her  dark  eyes  shadowed 
her  really  admirable  features.  She  lost  no  time  in  mak- 
ing her  wants  known;  one  could  see  that  she  had  been 
met  with  many  rebuffs  in  similar  situations  and  so,  like 
the  door  to  door  canvasser  she  had  learned  to  say  the 
most  in  the  least  time! 

"  Miss  Precore,"  she  began  in  her  tense  voice,  arti- 
ficially accented  here  and  there  with  a  dash  of  pseudo- 
New  York,  "  I  am  Hortense  Quinby,  I  live  in  Green- 

256 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

wich  Village,  and  perhaps  I  should  say  I  starve  in  Green- 
wich Village.  I  have  watched  your  rise  into  fame,  not 
with  envy  but  with  admiration  and  respect.  You  are 
young,  beautiful,  talented;  you  have  the  world  in  the 
palm  of  your  little  hand.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  be  any- 
thing unreasonable  —  but  I  do  implore  your  help.  Let 
me  become  essential  to  you  in  some  capacity  —  a  secre- 
tary, a  housekeeper,  a  maid  —  I  hold  myself  above  no 
office  if  it  concerns  the  right  person.  I  play  accom- 
paniments fairly  well  —  not  as  well  as  you  would  wish 
for  public  appearances  but  for  your  practice-hour.  I 
am  one  of  those  who  have  failed,"  here  a  deep-seated 
sigh.  "  I  came  from  a  small  town  in  the  middle  part 
of  the  state  about  ten  years  ago;  every  one  thought  I 
had  great  literary  ability  as  well  as  musical.  But  there 
was  no  one  to  help  me  get  across  —  perhaps  when  one's 
talents  are  divided  one  is  to  be  pitied." 

She  said  all  this,  scarcely  pausing.  Now  she  stopped 
to  breathe. 

"  Really,  Miss  Quinby,  I  have  every  one  I  need," 
Thurley  said  gently. 

"  But  I  have  not,"  returned  Miss  Quinby  to  her  amaze- 
ment. "  Be  generous,  lovely  young  thing,  be  generous 
to  us  who  have  failed.  I  am  not  asking  for  fame  — 
merely  to  become  associated  with  it."  She  held  out  her 
hands  dramatically.  "  Do  not  send  me  back  to  be  ground 
down  again!  " 

"  I  don't  need  you,"  Thurley  protested,  most  per- 
turbed. 

"  I  need  you.  My  life  cannot  be  lived  as  are  thou- 
sands of  women's  lives,  bounded  by  the  price  of  calico 
and  two  weeks'  vacation  in  a  lake  cottage.  I  have  a  soul 
above  pots  and  pans  —  a  fearless  soul,  capable  of  en- 
during all  things  to  achieve  my  aim.  Let  me  be  your 

257 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

inspiration  —  you  think  I  could  not?  "     The  restless  eyes 
were  dangerous  and  somewhat  vindictive. 

Miss  Quinby  proceeded  to  enumerate  her  abilities  and 
the  capacities  in  which  she  had  served.  As  nearly  as 
Thurley  could  understand  a  comic  opera  singer  stranded 
in  Miss  Quinby's  home  town  had  heard  her  sing  and 
idly  encouraged  the  girl.  Some  one  financed  the  comic 
opera  singer  on  to  New  York  and  she  thought  no  more 
of  the  incident.  Not  so  with  Hortense  Quinby.  From 
the  moment  she  had  been  told  she  had  "  a  voice  "  and  a 
"  future  "  and  "  get  out  of  this  hole,  my  dear  " —  every- 
thing in  her  present  scheme  of  things  had  been  aban- 
doned. She  came  to  New  York  only  to  find  the  opera 
singer  absorbed  in  her  own  difficulties  and  to  battle  alone 
with  her  "  voice  "  and  her  "  future  "  and  her  having 
left  "  the  dreadful  hole." 

She  had  tried  magazine  work;  rejection  slips  enough 
to  have  papered  the  boarding  house  were  the  result.  She 
had,  sadly  enough,  a  glimmer  of  the  divine  spark  which  led 
her  on  a  madcap  chase  during  which  the  best  years  of 
girlhood  were  wasted.  She  became  socialist  and  fol- 
lower of  long-haired,  East  Side  gentlemen's  magazines 
which  the  authorities  usually  made  a  bonfire  of,  locking  up 
the  long-haired  gentlemen.  She  was  prominent  in  visit- 
ing them  in  the  Tombs  and  giving  out  dangerous  state- 
ments to  the  press,  in  hopes,  really,  of  being  locked  up 
herself  and  thus  appearing  as  a  martyr.  There  are  so 
many  would-be  martyrs,  self-inflicted  benefactors  of  the 
public.  But  it  is  sometimes  as  hard  work  to  gain  perse- 
cution and  as  futile  as  the  task  of  the  men  who  are  paid 
seven  dollars  a  day  to  trace  the  history  of  seven  cents.  So 
Hortense  Quinby  had  found  it.  No  one  listened  to  her 
nor  locked  her  up  and  admitted  sob  sisters  to  write  down 
her  ravings  in  the  good  old-fashioned  dot-and-asterisk 

258 


style.  But,  great  Beatrice  Fairfax,  this  was  not  all 
wherein  she  had  suffered!  Thurley  was,  by  turns, 
amused,  bored,  thoughtful  and  finally  mentally  depressed 
as  the  recital  of  the  past  flowed  on  in  reels. 

She  had  started  a  paper  herself,  only  to  have  it  fail 
in  a  dismal  way.  There  was  not  enough  of  danger  in  it 
to  have  the  postal  authorities  take  the  matter  up.  She 
had  lived  among  the  East  Side  fanatics,  had  been  sec- 
ond housemaid  in  a  rich  New  Yorker's  family,  hoping  to 
observe  the  scandals  of  the  leisure  class  and  publish 
them  later  on.  Evidently,  she  had  been  unable  to  divulge 
glorious  scandals,  she  had  a  cast  off  hat  of  one  of  the 
daughters  of  the  family,  a  decent  sort  of  room  and  better 
food  than  Greenwich  Village  had  offered  and  the  third  day 
she  was  kindly  dismissed  for  general  lack  of  qualifications. 
She  had  tried  playing  accompaniments,  had  done  china 
painting,  suped  in  Broadway  comedies,  had  done  every- 
thing that  a  woman  troubled  by  a  "  liberated  soul  "  could 
do  and  yet  she  had  not  made  herself  invaluable  to  any 
one  really  worth  the  while.  She  wanted  to  attach  her- 
self to  Thurley,  a  sort  of  figurative  third-rail  affair,  the 
inspiration  and  strength  of  Thurley's  youthful  self. 

Thurley,  bewildered  from  the  outpouring  and  wishing 
some  one  would  come  and  spirit  her  away,  weakly  said 
she  could  come  in  to  take  some  dictation  for  correspond- 
ence once  a  week  or  do  other  minor  tasks. 

"  Until  I  prove  myself  essential,"  insisted  Miss  Quinby. 
u  When  that  day  comes  — " 

At  which  Thurley  named  a  day  and  hour  and  wearily 
rang  the  bell  to  have  her  shown  out. 

Hortense  Quinby's  visit  left  her  with  a  headache  and 
no  zest  for  her  supper.  The  opera  that  night  was  to 
be  "  The  Magic  Flute,"  and  Thurley  was  at  her  best  as 
Pamina.  She  loved  the  role  and  rehearsals  had  pro- 

259 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ceeded  in  excellent  fashion.  But  the  interview  with  Hor- 
tense  had  given  her  a  fearful  sense  as  to  her  own  future. 
Would  she,  in  turn,  become  furtive,  restless,  eager  to 
seize  upon  some  other  new  and  lovely  creature,  with  a 
sort  of  vampirish  desire  to  have  youth  by  feeding  on 
youth  ? 

She  went  to  her  room  without  ringing  for  her  maid  and 
slipped  out  of  her  brilliant  afternoon  frock.  She  rum- 
maged in  her  clothes  room  crowded  with  new  gorgeous- 
ness  until  she  found  a  rough  tweed  suit  and  a  boyish  hat. 
Taking  a  swagger  stick  and  whistling  for  Taffy,  she  wil- 
fully disappeared  out  of  the  apartment  at  just  the  hour 
her  schedule  called  for  rest,  facial  massage  and  toasted 
wafers  with  hot  milk! 

It  was  rainy,  and  the  air  was  unnaturally  warm,  the 
wind  having  died  down.  Her  throat  doctor  would  have 
come  after  her  in  an  ambulance  had  he  known  she  was 
sauntering  along  the  river  drive,  pausing  to  look  at  the 
blinking  lights  on  the  boats  or  at  the  dark,  beautiful 
uncertainty  of  what  lay  on  the  other  shore. 

Was  she  beginning  to  have  nerves?  Thurley  spoke 
sharply  to  Taffy,  warning  him  to  heel  her  or  she  would 
disown  him.  Nerves!  She  who  had  never  in  her  life 
been  prey  to  so  much  as  a  headache,  who  had  laughed 
at  throat  washes  and  precaution  against  eye  strain,  who 
audaciously  cracked  nuts  with  her  firm,  white  teeth  and 
declared  she  did  not  know  how  it  would  feel  to  be  even 
a  trifle  indisposed! 

Not  the  strain  of  training  nor  the  debut,  the  unnatural 
life  of  the  opera  stage  nor  the  atmosphere  of  crowds  and 
tired,  jaded  artists  who  knew,  too  well,  how  it  felt  to 
be  muchly  indisposed  had  made  such  inroads  on  her 
Viking-like  constitution  as  this  queer  woman  who  bounded 
in  on  her  coquettish  serenity  and  fairly  startled  a  yes  out 

260 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

of  her.  Thurley  felt  trip-hammer  pulses  beating  in  her 
forehead.  She  wanted  to  wander  on  and  on  until  the 
dark  became  permanent  and  the  traffic  scarce  and  she 
was  dog-tired  as  she  used  to  be  when  she  was  at  the  end 
of  one  of  her  tramps  with  Dan  and  they  sat  under  a 
tree  to  get  rested  up,  kissing  each  other  a  shocking  num- 
ber of  times  .  .  .  strange  this  woman  should  so  affect 
her. 

She  began  thinking  in  irregular  fashion,  indicative  of 
her  tired  brain,  of  the  different  persons  with  whom  the 
new  life  had  brought  close  and  necessary  contact  .  .  . 
Madame  Coleno,  the  great  Wagnerian  contralto,  strong 
and  fine  by  birthright  but  with  the  ungovernable  temper 
which  caused  her  to  turn  on  little  Edith  Hooker,  the 
English  girl  who  was  her  lyric  soprano,  slapping  her  face 
and  tearing  at  her  hair  until  some  one  interfered.  She 
wondered  if  the  madhouse  would  be  this  famous  woman's 
last  abode.  Some  said  she  had  run  amuck  through  drink, 
others  heartbreak,  a  few  whispered  insanity  was  in  the 
family.  Then  there  was  Escola,  the  silver-throated 
tenor!  She  shook  her  tired  head  in  disapproval.  Es- 
cola, who  was  a  merciless  tyrant,  cared  for  by  his  wife 
as  if  he  were  an  infant  in  arms  and  who  rewarded  her 
with  a  new  breach  of  promise  suit  as  a  payment!  The 
patient  wife,  an  Italian  peasant  as  every  one  knew,  made 
no  protest,  but  continued  her  round  of  preparing  mus- 
tard footbaths  and  making  native  dishes  Escola  de- 
manded, lighting  her  candles  before  her  little  shrine  for 
her  master's  success! 

.  .  .  Now  it  was  Dan  Ruffio,  the  bass  —  what  an  out- 
cast from  society  in  Birge's  Corners  he  would  be,  openly 
defiant  of  conventions,  always  storming  and  blustering 
about,  sneering  at  him  or  her  who  obeyed  the  law,  ridicul- 
ing, fond  of  cruel  practical  joking  of  a  low  calibre,  lov- 

261 


THE  GRAY<  ANGELS 

ing  no  one  save  himself,  yet  appearing  on  the  stage  as 
the  most  tender  of  lovers,  the  gentlest  of  patriarchs! 
And  when  Thurley  attended  the  first  supper  party  given 
by  a  famous  ballet  dancer,  she  had  been  genuinely  and 
lastingly  shocked  at  not  only  the  conversation  but  the 
manners  observed  by  all, —  it  was  not  the  gluttony  of 
Lissa's  parties  that  had  been  in  evidence  but  an  almost 
sinister  fashion  of  wasting  food  and  demanding  bizarre, 
unhealthful  dishes. 

Nor  could  she  forget  Wimple  O'Horo,  who  had  made 
violent  love  to  her  and  pouted  when  repulsed!  What  a 
wishy-washy,  unreal  boor  he  was  when  one  knew  him 
from  behind  the  footlights,  what  a  dashing,  light  hearted 
cavalier  he  appeared  when  viewed  on  the  other  side! 
Thurley' s  lips  curved  in  scorn  as  she  recalled  his  favor- 
ite pastime  of  reading  aloud  mash  notes  and  the  signed 
names  as  well.  Some  said  that  he  conducted  a  high- 
brow form  of  blackmail  when  he  needed  extra  money  with 
which  to  gamble. 

There  had  been  a  director's  party  where  throwing 
egg-nogs  had  been  the  chief  sport,  regardless  of  cos- 
tumes; a  hundred  and  one  such  incidents  and  new,  dis- 
tressing personalities  kept  recurring  to  Thurley  as  she 
stood  there,  quite  sure  she  was  tired  of  it  all,  of  even 
her  own  deliciously  decent  and  attractive  way  of  spend- 
ing her  first  earned  dollars  and  making  the  most  of  blue 
eyes,  curving  scarlet  lips  and  bright  brown  hair. 

She  remembered  what  Polly  had  told  her  regarding  her 
future  progress. 

"  There  are  three  steps  of  becoming  truly  mundane. 
First,  you  buy  things  in  a  store.  Next,  you  purchase 
articles  in  a  shop.  Lastly,  you  acquire  treasures  in  an 
establishment !  " 

With  a   sense  of  disappointment  at  having  nothing 

262 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

which  she  might  anticipate,  Thurley  realized  she  had 
reached  the  last  stage.  Only  yesterday  she  had  "  ac- 
quired "  a  tapestry  treasure  from  a  haughty  "  estab- 
lishment," the  proprietor  bowing  her  in  and  out  with 
formal  regard! 

She  leaned  over  a  stone  parapet,  gazing  at  the  fog, 
the  occasional  rain  drops  making  her  cheeks  cool  and 
refreshed,  although  Taffy  crouched  unwillingly  beside 
her  and  wondered  why  this  adorable  but  unreasonable 
mistress  of  his  walked  through  mud  when  her  car  waited 
for  her  signal,  to  say  nothing  of  his  own  self  being  hide- 
ously bespotted  and,  therefore,  in  line  for  odious  bath- 
ing. 

Some  one  jostled  near  her,  looked  at  her  sharply  for 
a  moment  and  then  said  in  an  alarmed  tone, 

"My  dear  little  girl,  what  a  risk  on  such  a  night! 
Not  an  hour  before  you're  due  in  your  dressing-room 
—  tell  me,  what  is  it?" 

It  was  Bliss  Hobart  in  an  equally  grotesque  get-up, 
a  checkered  raincoat  and  hat  winning  him  the  title  of 
Mackintosh  of  Mackintosh. 

Thurley  turned  and  held  out  her  hands,  the  swagger 
stick  falling  with  an  unjust  thump  on  Taffy's  long-suf- 
fering back. 

"  I'm  so  glad  —  I'm  lonesome  and  queer.  I  need  to 
be  set  right,"  she  protested  so  wistfully  that  Hobart 
kept  holding  on  to  her  hands,  the  darkness  keeping  her 
from  spying  how  tender  an  expression  was  in  his  eyes. 

"What's  it  all  about?  I've  just  run  out  of  secrets, 
so  do  tell  me.  Let's  walk  on,  not  stand  in  this  damp. 
Let  me  see  your  boots  —  are  they  stout  enough? 
Stand  under  this  lamplight  until  I  disprove  your  fib  — 
ah-ha,  they  are  not  stout  enough.  I  shall  call  a  cab." 

"  Please  don't.  I'll  run  away  and  you'll  have  to  drive 

263 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Taffy  about.  I  must  walk  or  I  cannot  sing  to-night  — 
I  want  to  walk  miles  and  miles  — " 

"  They'll  miss  you  and  be  throwing  a  scare  into  Gasoti 
that  you've  been  kidnapped.  It's  '  The  Magic  Flute,' 
too,  one  of  your  best  .  .  .  please,  Thurley,  just  walk 
along  until  you've  told  me  the  worst  and  then  we'll  get  a 
cab  — " 

"  What  of  yourself? "  she  asked,  suddenly  feeling 
elated  and  quite  fit. 

He  halfway  unbuttoned  his  coat,  showing  an  expanse 
of  white  shirt  bosom.  "  Full  dress  for  a  banquet  at 
which  I'm  to  speak.  I  took  a  turn  along  here  to  get 
myself  in  trim  .  .  .  tell  me,  what  about  your  fancies?  " 

Thurley's  eyes  were  like  stars.  She  caught  hold  of 
his  arm  as  if  he  had  been  Dan  and  began  to  talk.  It 
seemed  the  most  wonderful  yet  natural  thing  in  the 
world  to  tell  him  everything.  The  harsh  critic,  the  im- 
personal man  of  affairs  vanished;  he  was  a  good  pal 
walking  unselfishly  in  the  rain  and  under  such  self-sacri- 
ficing conditions  that  it  would  be  an  unusual  woman 
who  could  not  furnish  him  with  a  complete  line  of  new 
secrets ! 

When  she  finished,  having  begun  with  Mark's  flirta- 
tion and  her  own  hint  of  nerves  and  ending  with  this 
Hortense  Quinby  and  the  muddle  she  was  in  about  the 
morals  of  the  "  songbirds,"  Hobart  said  with  a  jolly 
laugh  that  set  her  nerves  quite  right, 

"  When  you  get  jammed,  always  remember  the  most 
delectable  sport  in  the  world  is  to  let  fools  take  you  for 
an  even  greater  fool.  As  I  told  you  many  months  ago, 
be  yourself  and  everything  swings  into  line.  Come  over 
to-morrow  at  ten;  there  are  one  or  two  flaws  in  your 
'  Rigoletto  '  song,  '  Caro  Nome  ' —  didn't  know  I  kept 
such  close  track  of  some  one,  did  you?  .  .  .  Hi,  cabby  — 

264 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

yes,  no,  just  the  lady  and  the  terrier,  the  Terror  will 
proceed  alone,  but  twice  as  happy  because  he  paused 
before  a  certain  dark  outline  .  .  .  good-by,  to-morrow  at 
ten  and,  remember,  stouter  boots  the  next  time  it  rains." 

With  a  feeling  of  disappointment  that  he  did  not  join 
her,  yet  exhilarated  and  impatient  for  the  morning,  Thur- 
ley  leaned  back  in  the  cab  and  hugged  the  aggrieved 
Taffy. 

She  sang  so  well  that  night  the  critics  bemoaned  the 
lack  of  new  adjectives  with  which  to  do  her  credit,  her 
dressing-room  was  crowded  with  visitors,  social  leaders 
who  had  left  their  boxes  to  besiege  her  with  invitations. 
Miss  Clergy  sat  supreme  in  a  corner  of  the  dressing- 
room,  engrossed  in  old-style  crewel  work  which  she  had 
learned  as  a  girl. 

"  And  no  man  will  ever  break  your  heart,"  she  said 
in  fond  delusion. 

Thurley  vanished.  During  the  entire  opera  she  had 
thought  of  the  fact  that  Bliss  Hobart  really  worried  be- 
cause she  had  not  worn  stouter  boots  ...  it  was  so 
"  comfy  "  to  know  some  one  worried  about  such  things. 
If  only  the  men  who  thought  ahead  about  all  the  little 
things  for  a  woman  were  not  so  universally  inclined  to 
forbid  a  woman's  thinking  ahead  about  the  big  ones.  .  .  . 


265 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

When  spring  convinced  Birge's  Corners  it  had  come 
to  stay  and  housewives  mended  screens  and  painted  porch 
steps,  and  indulged  in  that  blight  on  civilization,  house- 
cleaning,  there  came  a  better,  finer  understanding  between 
Dan  and  Lorraine. 

Since  their  New  York  wedding  journey  with  Thurley 
Precore's  debut  the  really  great  event,  there  had  been 
a  constrained  sort  of  relationship.  When  two  persons 
admit  to  themselves  they  are  not  happy  and  it  was  a 
mistake  to  have  married,  yet  are  making  the  best  of  it  and 
trying  to  trick  the  world  into  thinking  them  the  personi- 
fication of  bliss,  the  relationship  is  more  hopeless  than 
if  each  jogs  on  his  own  way  admitting  his  discontent  and 
lack  of  satisfaction.  The  latter  course  contains  a  ray 
of  hope  in  the  fact  that  systematic  deceit  and  repression 
have  not  yet  obtained  a  clutch. 

But  Dan  and  Lorraine  had  returned  to  the  wonder- 
ful new  house  and,  in  a  pathetic,  truthful  talk,  realized 
that  all  life  stretched  before  them  in  unending  monotony 
unless  they  wished  that  much  dreaded  and  unusual  of 
happenings  in  Birge's  Corners  —  especially  for  a  minis- 
ter's daughter — a  divorce! 

"  Perhaps  I  did  wrong  to  marry  you,"  Dan  said,  the 
first  day  of  their  return.  "  The  Birge  temper  in  a  new 
fashion.  I  wanted  to  hurt  some  one  else  because  I  was 
hurt  ...  a  pretty  cheap  way  to  do,  wasn't  it?  " 

They  were  in  the  living-room  where  wedding  presents 
were  in  huddled  groups,  for  Lorraine  brooked  no  inter- 
ference such  as  a  "  settler  "  to  which  many  brides  are 

266 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

subjected.  Everything  was  shiny  new,  unbecomingly 
so;  the  rugs  were  scarcely  adjusted  to  the  slippery 
floors,  there  was  an  air  of  dampness  because  the  initial 
furnace  fire  was  scarcely  under  headway,  price  marks 
were  still  pasted  on  the  electric  fixtures,  there  was  some- 
thing yet  to  be  done  with  the  landing  baseboard  as  there 
always  is  something  to  be  done  after  one  has  moved  into 
the  supposedly  most  complete  house  in  the  world. 

No  evidence  of  family  life  had  been  introduced  into 
this  new  and  loveless  house  which  was  at  once  the  envy 
and  curiosity  of  the  village.  Their  trunks  were  un- 
packed in  the  front  bedroom;  the  sun  parlor  waited 
for  Lorraine's  taste  in  furnishing;  a  thousand  and  one 
details  which  Dan  had  dreamed  that  Thurley  would 
settle  with  her  rapturous  enthusiasm  now  awaited  Lor- 
raine's common  sense  commands.  Lorraine  suggested 
nothing  of  the  girl  to  Dan;  she  was  a  woman,  narrow  in 
viewpoint  and  her  comprehensions,  pretty  in  a  doll  sense, 
without  imagination  or  artistic  taste,  some  one  who  would 
do  her  share  in  the  hill  climbing,  who  would  keep  house 
to  the  degree  of  dusting  even  the  tops  of  the  window 
ledges  where  no  one  possibly  could  look  for  dust  with- 
out the  aid  of  a  stepladder,  but  guiltless  of  exuberance 
of  youth  and  love  of  romance. 

"  I  knew  you  always  loved  Thurley,"  Lorraine  an- 
swered fearlessly.  "  You  knew  I  always  loved  you.  If 
Thurley  would  not  marry  you  and  you  asked  me  in  her 
stead,  I  felt  that  you  would  better  be  married.  You 
might  have  done  some  ugly,  cheap  things,  Dan,  if  you 
had  not  been  engaged  to  me.  I  love  you  enough  to  make 
myself  —  content,  by  keeping  your  house  and  having  your 
name.  I  know  I'm  not  Thurley,"  she  smiled  wistfully, 
"  but  I'll  always  be  Lorraine.  Some  day  you  may  come 
to  care  a  little  more." 

267 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"Oh,  'Raine,  you  care  as  much  as  that?" 

"  I  can't  say  it  as  I'd  like,"  was  her  answer. 

Dan  had  gone  over  to  take  her  gently  in  his  arms. 
"  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you,"  he  mumbled,  laying  his 
head  on  her  shoulder  for  a  long,  silent  moment. 

Nothing  more  was  said,  no  mention  made  of  the  wild- 
rose  siren  who  shadowed  their  happiness.  Each  under- 
stood life  was  to  go  on  in  even  fashion.  Lorraine  would 
gain  her  joy  and  satisfaction  from  being  Dan's  wife,  with 
the  pleasure  of  possessions;  she  was  born  to  be  a  house- 
wife and  would  have  been  depressed  and  useless  in  any 
other  channel.  Dan  was  born  to  dominate,  to  be  success- 
ful in  whatsoever  he  undertook,  tyrannical,  aggressive, 
honest  and  without  fear.  Dan  would  find  his  peace  of 
mind  in  his  business,  more  and  more  engrossed  in  it  each 
month,  in  the  town's  development.  Each  impersonally 
would  be  able  to  endure  the  strain  of  personal  unhappi- 
ness. 

To  be  able  to  entertain  all  the  social  clubs  in  the  big, 
sunny  parlors  with  over-stuffed  tapestry  furniture,  the 
baby  grand  player,  three  parlor  lamps,  a  large  engraving 
of  "  Daniel  in  the  Lion's  Den,"  to  say  nothing  of  the 
American  oriental  rugs  and  the  mahogany  grandfather's 
clock  that  played  the  Canterbury  quarters  —  that  was  a 
genuine  satisfaction  to  Lorraine  Birge.  True,  she  would 
have  been  more  happy  as  the  loved  wife  of  Dan  Birge, 
even  had  they  lived  as  did  his  rumored  ancestor  —  a 
trapper's  roving,  wild  life.  But  that  not  being  the  case, 
Lorraine  had  the  convenient  ability  to  transfer  her  hap- 
piness into  things,  into  becoming  a  hospitable  young  ma- 
tron who  followed  conventional  ways  with  amusing  docil- 
ity. 

To  have  chicken  salad  made  of  real  chicken  and  not  a 
hint  of  veal,  coffee  with  endless  whipped  cream  and  loaf 

268 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

sugar,  fresh  peach  ice  cream  and  angel  food  for  the  re- 
freshment of  her  Bible  class  was  a  positive  joy  to  Lor- 
raine; to  be  able  to  help  Mary  How,  the  girl  who  had 
been  "  unfortunate,"  was  a  greater  joy;  to  see  that  the 
struggling  little  church  had  a  new  carpet  and  a  leather 
upholstered  chair  for  the  minister,  to  give  a  set  of  new 
anthems  to  the  choir  —  such  things  as  these  dulled  the 
doubts  in  her  heart. 

"  She  must  be  happy  and  he  must  be  glad  he  married 
her,"  was  the  consensus  of  opinion.  "  She  spends  as 
much  as  a  queen  and  Sunday  she  had  on  the  fourth  new 
dress  since  she  came  home  a  bride,  to  say  nothing  of 
hats." 

"  Dan  Birge  give  her  pa  an  overcoat  with  real  Astra- 
khan collar  and  cuffs  on  it  and  you  never  see  him  now 
without  he's  got  a  cigar  stuck  in  his  mouth  —  do  you 
think  it  looks  well  for  a  minister?  Some  say  they  don't 
like  it.  Lorraine's  got  a  la  va-leer  necklace  and  a  brace- 
let watch  and  a  diamond  ring  besides  her  engagement  ring 
and  she  'hires  a  woman  to  wash  and  clean.  .  .  She  better 
go  slow  or  the  money  will  build  her  right  up.  I  remem- 
ber how  she  washed  every  mite  of  clothes  she  and  her 
pa  had." 

"  What  about  their  electric  cleaner,  that's  pretty  high- 
toned?  And  she  had  finger  bowls,  yes,  finger  bowls  when 
the  out-of-town  men  took  dinner  there.  AH  Baba  says 
they're  going  to  buy  a  seven-passenger  car  —  of  course 
it's  nobody's  business  and  they  certainly  do  a  lot  of  good 
but  they  better  be  careful  or  they  will  find  themselves 
so  up  in  G  that  there  would  be  no  living  with  them  .  .  . 
my  Milly  says  Dan  Birge  is  going  to  make  his  clerks 
wear  black  dresses  with  white  collars  —  now  did  you 
ever !  I  guess  Lia  Fine  and  Mercedes  Rains  won't.  Lia 
just  got  herself  a  red  alpaca  made  with  white  braid  — 

269 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

now  what  does  Dan  want  to  go  and  do  such  things 
for?" 

"  i  dunno,  anybody  that  wanted  to  marry  Thurley  Pre- 
core  is  likely  to  try  'most  anything,"  the  subject  here 
changing  to  Thurley  and  her  rumored  fame,  the  great 
event  concerning  Abby  Clergy's  recovery  and  adoption 
of  Thurley. 

So  Dan  and  Lorraine  developed  a  pleasant  politeness 
in  their  personal  relationships  as  if  they  had  been  married 
a  great  many  years  and,  perforce,  discovered  that  to  be 
polite  was  the  easiest  way  to  proceed! 

Nor  would  it  be  quite  fair  to  say  that,  in  time,  Dan 
did  not  become  used  to  his  well  ordered  home  and  ex- 
cellent meals,  cooked  to  please  himself  first  and  others 
afterwards,  the  even-tempered,  pretty  wife  who  always 
smiled  when  he  smiled  and  who  would  absent  herself 
whenever  she  suspected  that  he  wanted  to  be  alone,  to 
rummage  in  the  den  in  masculine  disorder,  using  a  cushion 
for  his  feet  as  well  as  his  head  or  to  go  into  the  pantry 
in  trail  of  half  a  pie  and  ruthlessly  crumb  the  parlor 
rugs  while  he  ate  it,  listening  to  his  favorite  rag-time  roll 
on  the  player  piano.  Dan  was  unconscious  of  the 
heinous  offense  committed,  because  no  complaint  was 
ever  made.  So  surely  as  Lorraine  knew  that  Thurley 
ruled  in  her  husband's  heart,  so  surely  did  Dan  rule  in 
Lorraine's  heart,  and  she  had  schooled  herself  in  ways 
of  becoming  essential  to  his  comfort  if  not  to  his  affec- 
tions. 

Dan's  clothes  were  mended,  never  a  rip  nor  tear  nor 
missing  button  was  in  evidence.  If  he  was  late  for  din- 
ner, "  It  keeps  warm  so  nicely  in  that  jewel  of  an  oven," 
or  if  he  'phoned  at  the  last  moment  that  he  would  not  be 
home,  the  telephone  operator,  June  Myers,  was  forced 
to  report  that  Lorraine  said  as  sweetly  as  if  she  was 

270 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

being  asked  to  a  party,  "  Oh,  surely,  Dan,  I  understand 

—  well,  have  a  good  time,  won't  you?" 

"  Little  mother-drudge  "  was  Ali  Baba's  name  for  her 
when  he  and  Betsey  would  argue  with  Hopeful  as  to  the 
situation.  Hopeful,  true  to  her  name,  tried  to  convince 
herself  and  every  one  else  that  joy  reigned  in  the  new 
house  with  the  iron  deer  guarding  the  grass  plot,  that 
things  were  better  as  they  were.  But  Ali  Baba  and 
Betsey  gave  battle  that  Thurley  was  the  girl  Dan  loved 
and  Lorraine  was  merely  making  the  best  of  it. 

They  "  went  out  "  as  befitted  young  married  people 
and  entertained  in  turn.  But  Dan  paid  no  heed  to  Lor- 
raine's friends.  Perhaps  he  was  conscious  of  their 
thoughts.  He  managed  to  stay  away  whenever  Lorraine 
had  in  "  a  bunch  "  and  when  they  attended  dancing  par- 
ties or  automobile  picnics,  he  always  left  the  women  and 
drifted  with  the  men  to  smoke  or  talk  business  even  when 
the  men  would  have  chosen  to  play  a  little. 

Dan  was  determined  to  keep  up  the  deceit  to  himself 
as  much  as  to  Lorraine.  He  gave  her  all  she  asked  for 

—  but  he  never  thought  of  a  surprise,  a  reward,  a  con- 
solation posy  when  rain  prevented  a  drive  or  a  bruised 
finger  was   the   result   of   trying   to   hammer   a   nail   in 
straight.     None   of  the   tender   trifles    fell    to   her   lot. 
And  the  old,  fiery  Dan,  who  was  "  bound  to  be  hung," 
as    the    village    had   prophesied,    went    his   way    in    his 
own    fashion,    brooking   neither    interference    nor    ques- 
tioning. 

When  the  new  and  high-priced  talking  machine  was 
sent  up  to  the  house  the  day  before  Christmas,  Lorraine 
had  hesitated  before  she  read  the  titles  of  the  records. 
She  fully  expected  to  see  "  Sung  by  Thurley  Precore  " 
on  the  greater  share  of  them.  But  Dan  had  chosen  with 
stoic  consideration  and  Thurley's  voice  was  never  re- 

271 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

created  to  fill  their  rooms  with  glorious  but  unwelcome 
sound. 

Nor  did  any  one  mention  Thurley  to  Dan.  A  few  of 
the  old-timers  would  say  when  occasion  offered,  "  You 
got  a  pretty  fine  little  wife,"  and  Dan  would  nod  cheer- 
fully and  answer, 

"  Bet  I  have !  "     And  here  the  matter  ended. 

Once,  Lorraine's  father,  who  had  wisely  chosen  to 
live  apart  from  his  son-in-law's  splendor,  called  on  Lor- 
raine during  Dan's  absence  out  of  town  and  said  in  his 
slow  way, 

"  Well,  my  girl,  have  you  anything  to  tell  me?  " 

Lorraine  was  engaged  in  making  "  over-drapes  "  for 
the  spare  room  which  was  to  be  in  pink.  She  was  the 
sort  who  could  smother  a  heartache  in  making  over- 
drapes  and  planning  color  schemes  as  reflected  in  candle- 
shades,  braided  rugs  and  embroidered  bed-shams. 

"  Tell  you  what,  father?  "  she  did  not  look  at  him. 

"  Is  he  happy?"  the  old  man  added,  which  surprised 
her  for  she  thought  he  would  have  asked  if  she  was 
happy. 

"  I  hope  so,"  she  told  him,  laying  aside  the  over- 
drapes. 

"  You're  a  good  girl,  Lorraine,  and  you  are  doing  your 
part.  If  God  sees  fit,  some  day  you  will  be  happy, 
too." 

They  said  no  more  about  the  matter.  After  he  left 
and  Lorraine,  like  all  wives  whose  husbands  are  out  of 
town,  was  eating  her  cold  lunch  off  the  kitchen  table,  she 
neglected  her  meal  to  wonder  about  the  prophecy.  It 
seemed  to  her,  rank  little  atheist,  that  it  was  not  God 
who  was  to  see  fit  half  as  much  as  a  girl  named  Thurley 
Precore ! 

When  Dan  returned  —  he  had  been  in  New  York  — 

272 


she  wondered  if  he  had  heard  Thurley  sing  and  had  sent 
her  flowers  or  tried  to  see  her.  As  she  thanked  him  for 
her  present,  a  violet  silk  sunshade,  she  wondered  if  it 
was  a  sop  to  conscience.  A  cruel  regiment  of  doubts 
threatened  to  defeat  her  loyal  resolutions.  But  she  made 
no  comment  nor  did  Dan.  They  talked  of  the  summer 
garden,  the  proposed  automobile  trip  with  some  other 
young  people,  the  addition  to  Dan's  store  and  the  splendid 
way  in  which  his  business  was  going. 

"  Don't,  for  cat's  sake,  take  that  Spooner  girl  with 
usl  "  Dan  said  testily,  as  they  returned  to  the  vacation 
subject.  "  She  hangs  around  here  all  the  time.  What 
in  the  world  do  you  see  in  her  anyway?  " 

"  Nothing,  but  I'm  sorry  for  her,  she's  so  unhappy." 

"What's  she  unhappy  about?  A  great,  big,  strap- 
ping girl  who  ought  to  be  at  work!  She  makes  fudge 
while  her  mother  irons  her  dresses,  every  one  says 
so." 

"  Oh,  Dan!  "  pleaded  Lorraine. 

"  Ever  since  she's  moved  here  from  Pike  she  has 
camped  on  our  doorstep.  She  makes  me  nervous  with 
that  whining  voice  and  that  giggle."  Here  Dan  gave  ex- 
cellent imitations  of  each.  "  She  rouges  like  a  burlesque 
actress  and  dresses  her  hair  in  curls." 

"  Oh,  poor  Cora  Spooner  was  terribly  in  love  with  an 
actor.  He  was  in  a  stock  company  at  Pike  and  he  did 
encourage  her — " 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines,"  Dan  said  testily,  going 
to  the  talking  machine  and  putting  on  a  lively  band 
record.  "  I  can't  help  that.  I  notice  it  didn't  affect 
her  appetite.  Why  don't  she  get  a  job?  " 

"  Well,  there's  nothing  in  her  line  here,"  Lorraine's 
forehead  wrinkled  anxiously.  She  was  afraid  Dan  would 
forbid  Cora's  coming  to  the  house,  which  command  would 

273 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

be  absolute.  Cora  Spooner  brought  a  certain  zest  into 
Lorraine's  existence.  She  was  a  rather  handsome  girl 
of  twenty-three  or  four  with  no  intention  of  working  for 
her  living  if  it  could  be  otherwise  arranged.  Her 
mother,  whose  small  pension  and  capital  enabled  her  to 
"  get  along,"  was  Cora's  chief  bugbear.  Cora  was  a 
bundle  of  discontent  and  weird  notions,  trying  to  play 
the  bird  in  the  gilded  cage  role  and  complain  that  Dirge's 
Corners  was  nothing  but  a  prison.  She  soon  discovered 
that  Lorraine's  car  was  good  to  ride  about  in,  her  food 
the  best  to  be  had;  it  was  jolly  to  stay  in  the  pink  spare 
room  with  the  over-drapes  and  crystal  candlesticks  in- 
stead of  her  own  forlorn  cottage.  Besides,  her  mother 
did  not  understand  her;  fancy  wanting  any  one  to  be  a 
stenographer  or  school  teacher  when  heaven  only  knew 
that  Cora  was  born  for  romance,  adventure !  She  had  a 
good  notion  to  cut  her  hair  short  and  masquerade  about 
the  country  as  a  boy, —  men  always  had  such  good  times. 
Cora  had  had  a  half  dozen  beaux  who  always  dropped 
her  after  a  certain  length  of  time,  saying  she  was  "  soft  " 
and  lazy  and  her  mother  ought  to  make  her  work,  and 
turning  their  attentions  to  plain-faced  girls  who  could 
cook  and  who  had  a  little  money  in  the  bank! 

Cora  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  badgering  Dan 
for  advance  style  sheets  and  asking  him  to  order  things 
for  her  for  which  she  could  not  pay,  wearing  them  about 
with  a  selfconscious  mannikin  air.  When  orange  silk 
stockings  and  white  kid  boots  were  the  vogue,  Cora 
stepped  forth  in  the  most  blazing  of  orange  stockings 
and  the  snowiest  of  white  kid  boots,  her  skirts  just 
reaching  below  the  knee.  When  the  matter  was  men- 
tioned to  her  mother,  she  said  with  a  weak  smirk  that 
Cora  was  her  pa  all  over  again.  Every  one  said  if  she 
could  have  the  training  she  would  make  a  great  actress. 

274 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Dirge's  Corners,  having  had  one  genius  develop  in  its 
humble  and  unappreciative  midst,  frowned  upon  this  sug- 
gestion —  it  is  not  always  the  most  pleasing  nor  conven- 
ient event  to  have  a  genius  arise  from  one's  backyard! 

"  I  guess  Cora  will  marry  well,"  Mrs.  Spooner  used 
to  say,  "  so  I  don't  mind  doing  the  work  and  keeping 
her  hands  white  —  have  you  ever  noticed  them?  Dear 
me,  I  should  think  Mrs.  Birge  would  keep  a  maid  instead 
of  slaving  so.  Cora  says  she  works  like  a  little  Turk. 
They  say  he  has  a  lot  of  money.  ...  I  wish  there  were 
some  brothers  in  his  family." 

So  Cora  went  her  selfish  way,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  a 
rich  bachelor  who  was  to  besiege  her  with  attentions. 
She  used  to  prey  on  Lorraine's  sympathy  and  lack  of  ex- 
perience by  her  tales  of  being  misunderstood  and  abused. 
Cora  was  shrewd  in  shallow  fashion,  highly  emotional, 
jealous,  small-minded  and  given  to  extreme  views  of  any- 
thing which  happened  to  appeal  to  her  for  the  moment. 
She  was  a  bad  asset  to  the  village  since  she  could  arouse 
discontent  and  rebellion  quickly  among  her  associates. 
She  had  a  way  of  unsettling  every  one  and  then  with- 
drawing from  the  situation  without  leaving  a  solution. 

The  neighbors  said  she  raged  and  fought  with  her 
mother  over  the  question  of  money  and  that  she  always 
came  out  victor.  In  public,  she  was  devotion  itself, 
although  she  was  ashamed  of  her  mother's  appearance 
and  managed  to  keep  her  in  the  house  most  of  the  time. 
"  Mamma  has  heart  trouble  "  was  her  tender  explana- 
tion, although  mamma  was  probably  ironing  ruffled  petti- 
coats or  cleaning  white  kid  boots  at  the  very  moment 
Cora  pensively  explained  the  maternal  maladies! 

Lorraine  regarded  Cora  as  a  story-book  sort  of  per- 
son, marvelling  at  her  daring  and  style.  Cora  openly 
had  tried  to  bewitch  Dan  and,  being  curtly  shown  she 

275 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

was  of  no  more  consequence  than  Mr.  Toots,  began  sys- 
tematically and  painstakingly  to  "  knock  "  him  to  every 
one  except  his  wife. 

"  Poor  little  Lorraine  —  little  slave,  she  is  —  I  go  to 
see  her  because  I'm  so  sorry  for  her,  yes,  he's  terribly 
mean  —  oh,  awful!  I've  heard  some  things,  but  of 
course  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  repeat  them,"  and  so  on, 
all  the  time  borrowing  Lorraine's  pin  money  and  eating 
up  her  dinners,  riding  in  her  car  and  making  Lorraine  in- 
troduce her  to  every  man,  married  or  unmarried,  who 
stopped  over  in  the  village  long  enough  to  visit  the 
Birges. 

Lorraine  did  not  press  the  matter  of  taking  Cora  on 
the  vacation,  although  Cora  had  managed  to  invite  her- 
self! 

"  There  is  melancholia  in  our  family,"  she  told  Lor- 
raine. "  Oh,  yes,  several  suicides  —  terrible,  isn't  it? 
I  try  not  to  brood  but  I  am  a  daughter  of  the  sun,  I 
crave  love  and  life.  How  could  I  be  content  in  this 
pokey  place?  Oh,  Lorraine,  I  look  upon  you  as  a  sister 
—  do  be  good  to  me,"  at  which  Lorraine's  gullible  little 
self  would  be  utterly  won  over  and  she  would  bake  Cora's 
favorite  cake  and  make  her  a  crepe  de  chine  waist  and 
ask  over,  braving  Dan's  wrath,  some  drummer  who  might 
be  in  search  of  a  wife  as  well  as  a  buyer  for  his  dust- 
less  mops! 

But  there  was  another  person  who  had  come  into  The 
Corners  since  Thurley  had  left  it  and  whom  Dan  regarded 
as  every  one's  enemy.  He  had  said  publicly  that  it  was 
a  patriotic  duty  to  have  this  person,  Owen  Pringle,  al- 
though he  spelled  it  Oweyne  and  had  a  book  plate,  shot 
at  sunrise,  velvet  smoking-jacket,  hair  parted  in  the 
middle  and  all ! 

As  the  record  ended,  Dan  flung  himself  on  the  sofa, 

276 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

remarking,  "  I  wish  Cora  and  Owen  would  get  married 

—  ye  gods,  do  you  get  it?  "     He  chuckled.     "  I'd  hand 
them  a  chest  of  small  silver  if  they  did.     How  about  it 

—  can't  you  get  Owen  interested?  " 

"  Oh,  Cora  wouldn't  consider  him,"  Lorraine  said 
seriously. 

Dan  chuckled  more  than  ever.  "  If  you  had  a  sense 
of  humor,  you'd  have  a  lot  of  fun,  but  you  take  these 
people  at  face  value.  Now  Owen  clerked  for  me  a 
month  and  disorganized  the  whole  shop.  I'll  tell  you 
right  now  that  unless  he  cuts  out  his  nonsense  and  goes 
back  to  the  livery  stable  from  which  he  sprang,  I'm 
going  to  get  him  away  from  here." 

"  But  his  shop  is  artistic,"  Lorraine  murmured. 

At  which  Dan  tossed  a  sofa  pillow  good-naturedly  her 
way.  He  proceeded,  in  his  slangy  fashion,  to  tell  her 
that  this  Owen  Pringle  who  had  appeared  from  nowhere 
some  months  before  and  tried  his  best  to  create  a  real, 
true  leisure  class  in  the  village  was  nothing  short  of  sev- 
eral kinds  of  a  fool;  that  when  a  full-grown  man  with  ap- 
parently nothing  the  matter  with  him  tries  to  make  his 
living  by  starting  a  shop  and  spelling  it  shoppe,  and  has 
a  wistaria  tea  room  and  an  art  department  where  you 
purchase  impossible  penwipers  made  of  cherry-colored 
silk,  baby  bootees  and  old  ladies'  knitted  throws,  smart 
Christmas  cards  telling  about  everything  but  Christmas, 
and  writing  paper  that  resembled  butchers'  wrappings, 
as  well  as  crazy  old  wooden  stuff  painted  bright  red  and 
green  and  labelled  "  window  ledges  "  or  "  door  stops  " 
and,  horror  of  horrors,  a  millinery  department  which 
this  Oweyne  conducted  himself,  making  hats  resembling 
Weber  and  Fields, —  it  is  time  to  employ  violence  !  But 
this  was  not  the  worst  of  his  offenses.  Oh,  no  —  he 
had  tried  to  organize  a  country  club  and  persuade  hard- 

277 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

working,  honest  men  to  play  golf  instead  of  raising  pota- 
toes and  instituted  the  polo  craze,  thereby  demoraliz- 
ing all  the  decent,  well-broken  delivery  horses  in  the 
township.  He  lived  at  Dan's  old  suite  at  the  Hotel 
Button  and  gave  chafing-dish  parties  and  thought  up 
smart  sayings  ahead  of  time.  He  wanted  to  organize 
a  stock  company  and  play  "  Lady  Windermere's  Fan,"  but 
Cora  Spooner  and  June  Meyers  were  the  only  two  who 
had  out  and  out  joined,  so  the  project  was  abandoned 
"  for  lack  of  funds  and  interest." 

Owen  always  wore  Palm  Beach  suits  and  hats  draped 
with  Roman  scarfs.  He  was  given  to  a  dash  of  garlic  in 
his  salad  dressing,  believed  the  dead  returned,  read 
French  novels  and  was  undeniably  seen  sitting  in  the 
window  of  his  shoppe  sewing  maline  on  hat  frames  and 
actually  trying  them  on  himself  for  the  effect. 

At  first  he  was  a  novelty,  but  since  tea  and  nasturtium- 
leaf  sandwiches  do  not  appeal  to  the  male  population, 
only  females  clustered  together  in  his  shoppe  and  bought 
his  nonsense  or  defended  him. 

Owen,  too,  had  speedily  discovered  the  advantage  of 
having  Mrs.  Daniel  Birge  as  a  patroness.  Despite  Dan's 
ridicule,  she  came  to  the  shoppe  to  buy  a  hat  and  thus 
set  the  stride  for  the  younger  set,  while  Owen  managed 
to  be  invited  to  dinner  and  to  be  present  on  the  most 
interesting  of  the  automobile  trips. 

"  As  a  member  of  the  idle  rich,  Owen  would  have 
shone,"  concluded  Dan,  "  but  in  life  his  best  getaway 
would  be  to  become  president  of  the  Erie  Canal."  Then 
seeing  Lorraine's  real  confusion,  he  said  good-naturedly, 
"  If  they  amuse  you,  go  on,  honey,  drag  the  whole  lot 
up  here  —  you  have  to  listen  to  them,"  drifting  into  an 
unsociable  nap  and  leaving  Lorraine  occupied  with  her 
thoughts. 

278 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Dan's  other  two  particular  pests  and  Lorraine's  friends 
were  Josie  Donaldson  and  Hazel  Mitchell.  Josie 
Donaldson's  father  was  next  to  Dan  the  richest  man  in 
the  village  and  Josie  the  natural  and  fearful  result  of  be- 
ing the  only  child  of  such  a  plutocrat. 

She  was  a  precocious  young  person  with  the  boast  that 
she  could  do  anything  she  set  out  to  do,  if  she  could  do 
it  her  way,  backed  up  by  admiring  throngs  of  relatives. 
She  had  framed  the  first  dollar  bill  she  ever  earned  ( ?) 
for  some  minor  service  in  her  father's  hardware  store, 
had  worn  the  patience  of  the  newspaper  editors  to  a 
thread  by  asking  for  a  job  as  a  reporter  only  to  take  a 
few  days  off,  after  she  was  hired,  to  give  a  party  or  write 
a  new  poem.  Dan  called  her  poems  "  Josie's  dope,"  as 
they  appeared  from  time  to  time  in  a  box  border  with 
the  heading,  "  Dirge's  Corners'  Muse." 

There  were  many  familiar  phrases  in  these  poems 
which  increased  in  number  as  time  went  on,  but  being 
Josie  Donaldson's,  they  were  passed  without  question  and 
editor  after  editor  would  warn  his  new  and  optimistic  suc- 
cessor, "  When  that  Donaldson  girl  comes  in  here  for  a 
job  just  tie  the  can  on  from  the  start.  It  is  cheap  at  half 
the  price  to  be  rid  of  her.  You'll  know  her.  She's  fat 
and  dresses  like  a  circus  rider,  carries  a  bolt  of  baby  rib- 
bon around  so  as  to  tie  up  any  poems  she  may  happen  to 
write  en  route.  She'll  cry  if  you  correct  her  spelling  and 
she  was  never  known  to  get  any  one's  initials  right  in  her 
life,  not  even  her  own  family's.  Fudge  ought  to  be  her 
life  work.  She's  made  love  to  every  fellow  in  the  burg 
and,  when  they  escape,  she  wants  to  start  a  backbiting  con- 
test in  the  paper.  Her  pa  and  ma  think  Josie  is  one,  two, 
three,  all  right,  and  they  have  enlarged  photographs  of 
her  at  every  stage  —  from  writhing  on  the  fur  rug  clad  in 
a  smile  to  her  graduating  dress  clasping  the  valedictory 

279 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

essay.  She  writes  her  father's  ads  and  I'm  darned  if  I 
can  tell  whether  he  wants  to  run  a  special  sale  of  sprin- 
kling cans  at  seventy-nine  cents  per  or  whether  hell's 
broken  loose  in  Hoboken!  Don't  let  her  get  across  — 
not  even  for  a  week  or  you'll  have  galloping  brain  fever." 

Josie  also  attached  herself  to  Lorraine,  who  read  her 
poems  and  made  her  fudge  galore.  She  told  Lorraine 
her  troubles,  that  a  girl  with  brains,  and  particularly  a 
girl  with  literary  ability,  was  never  popular  with  boys; 
they  wanted  silly,  little  wasp-waisted  dolls  and  she  was 
just  too  hurt  for  words  —  so  there. 

Lorraine  was  also  sorry  for  Josie  and  she  let  her 
ravage  her  sugar  barrel  and  pile  on  to  her  best  chaise 
longue  to  lie  and  pout  and  eat  candy,  trying  to  find  a  new 
word  to  rhyme  with  "  death." 

The  other  offender  was  Dan's  own  stenographer, 
Hazel  Mitchell.  Dan,  who  looked  upon  the  world  with 
a  larger  vision  than  did  most  of  the  Corners,  had  a  con- 
tempt and  lack  of  interest  in  Lorraine's  "  grafters." 
Had  he  loved  Lorraine  as  he  had  loved  Thurley  there 
would  have  been  many  a  battle  on  the  subject  until  he  had 
shown  Lorraine  the  broader  vision  and  comprehension. 
As  it  was,  he  was  content  to  let  well  enough  alone,  unless 
he  was  called  upon  to  entertain  the  "  grafters  "  and  en- 
dure their  chatter. 

Hazel  Mitchell  was  a  slender,  wan-eyed  girl  — "  moon 
face  "  was  Dan's  considerate  name  for  her.  She  was, 
so  he  said,  eternally  recombing  her  hair  when  he  wanted 
to  give  some  dictation  and  always  feeling  whether  or  not 
her  waist  and  skirt  were  properly  interlocked,  or  running 
off  to  visit  the  male  clerk  in  the  men's  furnishings  or 
"  just  slipping  "  up  to  Owen  Pringle's  shoppe  to  try  on  a 
new  hat! 

Hazel  operated  her  actions  on  the  theory  that  "  pity 

280 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

is  akin  to  love  "  and  if  she  could  make  every  one  suffi- 
ciently sorry  for  her  the  day  was  won.  This  she  man- 
aged to  do  with  less  consideration  for  the  truth  and  the 
common  sense  of  her  audience  than  one  might  have  sus- 
pected. 

"  Oh,  I  never  listen  to  her  yarns,"  Dan  told  Lorraine, 
when  Lorraine  asked  if  he  did  not  feel  sorry  for  Hazel 
who  had  a  brutal,  drunken  father  and  whose  mother 
with  eight  children  younger  than  Hazel  never  had  a  kind 
word  for  the  girl,  but  expected  her  to  come  right  straight 
home  from  work  and  start  tending  the  babies.  "  If  there 
was  any  one  else  in  this  town  I  could  hire,  I'd  do  it  with- 
out hesitation.  But  if  I  let  her  go,  Josie  Donaldson 
would  want  the  place  or  else  Cora  Spooner,  and  Hazel  is 
a  mild  sort  of  fool.  How  can  she  cry  all  the  time  and 
not  get  granulated  lids?  "  he  ended  irritably.  "  She  blots 
her  dictation  pad  for  fair." 

"  She  says  they  have  nothing  elevating  in  their  home 
and  she  craves  better  things,"  repeated  little  Lorraine. 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  does  —  she  wants  a  duke  to  drop  out  of 
the  clouds  and  swoop  her  up  and  a  lot  she  cares  if  her 
whole  family  starve  to  death.  I  don't  blame  her  father 
for  his  morning's  morning,  if  he  has  to  listen  to  her,  and 
she  spends  all  her  money  on  herself,  turning  it  right  into 
the  store  for  nonsense.  Her  spare  time  she  spends  in 
Owen  Pringle's  boudoir,"  Dan's  eyes  twinkled,  "  learning 
how  to  be  one  of  the  idle  rich  on  eight  per!  Oh,  'Raine, 
ask  old  All  Baba  up  for  supper  —  I  want  to  know  how  it 
feels  to  have  somebody  with  sense  as  a  guest." 

"  But  it's  a  real  joy  for  the  girls  to  come  here  — " 

Here  Dan  betrayed  more  insight  into  Lorraine's  life 
than  she  fancied  he  possessed.  "  It  was  never  a  joy  for 
them  to  come  and  see  you  when  you  lived  at  the  parson- 
age, scrubbing  and  cooking  and  mending!  I  never  saw 

281 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Josie  Donaldson  rolling  up  her  sleeves  to  give  you  a  lift 
or  Hazel  Mitchell  hanging  about  until  she  was  asked  in- 
side. It  was  no  joy  then.  They  beat  it  the  other  way 
when  they  saw  you  coming  — " 

He  spied  a  tear  in  Lorraine's  gentle  eyes.  So  he  hum- 
bly added,  "  Never  mind  my  growls,  do  as  you  like  —  you 
don't  dictate  to  me  about  the  grafters  I  take  to  lunch  or 
driving,  do  you  ?  " 

Lorraine  did  not  answer;  she  was  thinking  that  Dan, 
too,  was  quite  in  the  same  category.  Dan  had  never  had 
any  "  joy  "  in  seeing  Lorraine  until  Thurley  had  gone 
away.  Dan  was  no  different  in  some  respects  from  the 
others ! 

Before  the  vacation  occurred,  with  Owen,  Josie  and 
Cora  as  the  guests,  Lorraine  rummaged  in  Dan's  chif- 
fonier to  find  extra  goggles  for  Cora  and  a  linen  motor 
coat  for  Owen.  She  came  upon  a  magazine  lying  face 
downward. 

She  understood  why  it  was  almost  hidden,  for  it  was  a 
recent  issue  of  a  musical  journal  and  the  cover  page  was 
a  brilliant  color  reproduction  of  a  photograph  of  Thurley 
Precore  as  A'ida,  glowing  praise  briefly  written  under- 
neath. Thurley  wore  a  mesh  of  lace  studded  with  bril- 
liants; she  half  reclined  on  a  divan,  like  some  legendary 
queen  dreaming  in  the  blue-black  night! 

Lorraine  did  not  know  how  long  she  had  been  crouch- 
ing on  the  floor  as  if  she  were  a  child  discovering  hidden 
Christmas  presents.  Dan  came  in  and,  bending  down, 
gently  took  the  magazine  away.  Lorraine  started  up. 
She  realized  the  contrast  between  the  photograph  and 
herself  far  more  than  Dan  —  since  Dan  only  realized 
Thurley.  Her  bungalow  apron  over  a  pink  house  dress, 
her  heelless  slippers,  her  unpowdered,  flushed  face  —  and 

282 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

that  gorgeous,  super-person  smiling  out  so  temptingly  at 
them  both ! 

u  'Raine,  do  you  mind  —  just  having  the  picture?  "  he 
asked  with  none  of  his  customary  aggression. 

"  Why,  no  —  of  course  not."  She  was  glad  to  make 
her  escape. 

That  night  Dan  brought  his  wife  some  roses  and  told 
her  she  had  on  a  becoming  dress;  he  was  glad  Cora 
Spooner  was  to  be  Owen's  clerk  —  after  all,  it  took  all 
kinds  of  fools  to  make  a  world. 

And  on  the  same  night  Thurley,  closing  her  season, 
received  among  other  offerings  a  handsome  basket  of 
orchids  and  lilies  tied  with  silvery  tulle.  The  card  said, 
"  From  an  old  friend." 


283 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Thurley's  summer  was  spent  unwisely.  She  excused 
this  by  apparently  sound  reasons.  First,  she  was  tired 
from  the  season's  work  and  the  unusual  social  demands 
which  it  seemed  wisest  to  endure.  Secondly,  her  jealous 
curiosity  was  roused  at  Bliss  Hobart's  mysterious  de- 
parture without  explanation  of  where  he  was  going  or 
how  long  he  would  remain  away,  an  almost  brusque  leave- 
taking  which  consisted  of  a  brief  cup  of  tea  at  Thurley's 
apartment,  telling  her  some  critical  things  about  her  voice 
and  answering  lightly  when  she  questioned  him  as  to  his 
whereabouts, 

"  I  go  to  my  castle  in  Spain,  really,  nothing  but  a  simple 
little  hermitage  in  the  Maine  woods.  I  assure  you  it 
would  be  of  no  interest.  Now  I  must  be  off,  for  it  is 
like  uprooting  an  oak  every  time  I  go  away.  I  like  to 
leave  things  as  shipshape  as  possible  before  I  begin  to 
play." 

"  Are  you  never  lonesome?  "  she  persisted. 

"  I've  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  forest,"  he  answered. 
u  Good-by.  I  understand  you've  accepted  for  the  yacht- 
ing party,  the  one  Lissa  is  giving."  His  face  expressed 
displeasure. 

Thurley  nodded;  she  had  intended  to  escape  it  until 
this  identical  moment  when  his  bland,  impersonal  manner 
was  fuel  for  her  folly. 

"  You'll  get  good  ideas  as  to  what  to  avoid.  I  have 
always  contended  that  to  build  a  virtuous  wall  around 
one's  self  was  questionable, —  better  be  able  to  view  all 

284 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

that  is  happening,  good  and  bad,  and  make  one's  deduc- 
tions accordingly.  Lissa  reminds  me  of  the  basilisk 
serpent  who  could  '  look  one  to  death.'  Have  a  care, 
Thurley;  you've  no  more  youth  and  energy  to  spare  than 
most  of  us."  And  he  left  her. 

The  third  reason,  and  this,  too,  was  an  annoying  secret, 
was  that  Thurley  wanted  to  see  the  Boston  Valley  hills 
and  Birge's  Corners.  She  wanted  to  go  home !  Yet 
not  as  Thurley  Precore,  prima  donna,  but  just  as  Thurley, 
as  unknown  but  as  loved  as  when  she  had  raced  through 
the  village  with  Dan  in  pursuit  or  climbed  chestnut  trees 
to  the  discredit  of  her  manners,  helping  make  daisy 
chains  for  the  primary  class  to  carry  into  church  on  Chil- 
dren's Day  or  working  her  bit  of  a  garden  with  whole- 
hearted interest  and  disregard  of  her  appearance. 

The  notion  was  absurd  and  impossible,  and,  as  a  pow- 
erful destroyer  of  whim,  Thurley  accepted  the  invitation 
to  Lissa's  yachting  party  and  cruised  along  the  coast  of 
Newfoundland  in  a  yacht  which  had  been  lent  to  Lissa 
by  one  of  her  devoted  pupils. 

The  yachting  party  was  not  a  pleasant  affair  all  told. 
But  it  was  interesting  and  exciting.  Lissa  herself  was 
the  discordant  note,  with  the  faculty  of  stirring  every 
one  up  about  something  and  then  losing  interest  in  it  and 
being  provoked  if  the  others  did  not  play  sheep  and  do 
likewise.  She  had  a  subtle  fashion  of  reminding  every 
one  that,  after  all,  she  was  the  hostess  and  if  they  wished 
they  could  all  get  off  the  yacht  at  any  time  they  liked  and 
walk  home  from  Newfoundland! 

Lissa  played  with  Mark  in  cat-and-mouse  fashion, 
flirted  desperately  with  Caleb  to  arouse  Ernestine's  jeal- 
ousy, and  Caleb,  who  regarded  her  as  stunning  copy,  re- 
solved to  transplant  her  bodily  in  her  most  daring  com- 
bination of  orange  satin  with  black  velvet  streamers  into 

285 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

his  next  best  seller.  There  were  ways  of  gaining  re- 
venge, he  informed  Ernestine,  who  stayed  by  herself  on 
the  upper  deck,  dressing  in  uninteresting  smock  affairs 
and  talking  over  prosy  matters  with  Collin  Hedley  and 
Polly,  while  Thurley  and  Mark  romped  about  to  brave 
Lissa's  displeasure  as  they  made  pseudo-love  in  audacious 
fashion. 

After  four  weeks  of  this  vapid  sport,  every  one  had 
succeeded  in  getting  on  every  one  else's  nerves  and  the 
party  disbanded,  its  members  each  vowing  that,  although 
so  and  so  was  a  dear,  they  would  never  go  away  with 
them  again,  and  Thurley  flew  on  to  the  mountains  to 
visit  Miss  Clergy  and  find  an  enforced  peace  in  the  sani- 
tarium routine. 

War  broke  out  in  Europe  with  its  astonishing  effects 
and  complications  and  when  the  fall  came  to  rescue  Thur- 
ley from  feeling  as  aged  as  the  gentleman  from  Calcutta 
who  had  chronic  neuralgia  and  had  occupied  the  veranda 
chair  next  to  Miss  Clergy's,  New  York  began  to  hum  with 
winter  plans  and  she  returned  to  Hortense  and  the  apart- 
ment with  positive  delight  and  eagerness. 

Ennui  in  the  young  is  more  deadly  than  in  the  middle- 
aged,  since  it  is  an  unnatural  happening.  The  press 
agent  who  wrote  attractive  squibs  about  Miss  Precore 
yachting  and  in  the  mountains  little  dreamed  that  Thur- 
ley started  her  season  with  as  much  zest  as  the  squirrel 
in  the  squirrel  cage  who,  from  his  endless  pursuit  of  noth- 
ing, seems  to  be  the  proof  extraordinary  to  the  world 
that  it  is  possible  for  one  person  to  make  a  quarrel ! 

Ernestine  Christian  had  romped  over  to  Devonshire 
to  meet  a  congenial  friend  who  would  wheel  through  the 
country  and  thus  repay  her  for  the  yachting  trip,  but  she 
was  caught  in  the  war  clouds  and  reached  home  with  diffi- 
culty. 

286 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Caleb  met  her  as  was  customary,  although  all  she  said 
by  way  of  a  welcome  was, 

"  I've  had  a  fright  of  a  time.  Europe  is  seething  like 
a  witches'  caldron.  I'm  out  of  my  own  cigarettes  and 
special  kind  of  hair  nets  and  my  fingers  feel  like  sticks. 
Dalrymple,  the  best  coach  I've  ever  had,  has  rushed  to 
Canada  to  go  into  training!  " 

"  You  look  fagged,"  Caleb  admitted  as  he  drove  her 
home.  "  Well,  as  nearly  as  I  can  make  out  every  one 
has  a  grouch  on.  Thurley  is  beginning  to  have  bad  man- 
nerisms; Bliss  must  take  her  in  hand.  Lissa  has  ruined 
her  with  nonsensical  notions  and  Mark  dawdles  about 
only  to  waste  her  time.  You  haven't  asked  as  to  my- 
self," he  reminded  her  childishly. 

"  I  brought  you  a  hand-illumined  thing,"  she  answered. 

"  Oh,  certainly —  always  remember  the  servants  when 
returning  home.  It  pays !  By  Jove,  that's  a  nice  hullo 
for  a  chap,  to  say  nothing  of  having  stood  for  your 
glooms  in  Newfoundland  — " 

"  You  were  listening  behind  tall  vases  to  get  our  con- 
versation," she  reproached.  "  I  dare  say  you've  a  hun- 
dred pages'  getaway  on  a  worst-seller." 

Caleb  was  silent  and  then,  instead  of  impetuous  de- 
fense, he  said  in  a  dreary  tone,  "  Don't  believe  I'll  bother 
you  again,  Ernestine.  It  just '  riles  '  you  and  discourages 
me." 

"  Oh,  do  drop  in  for  dominoes;  no  one  else  ever  lets 
me  win  so  often,"  she  returned,  a  bundle  of  nerves  and 
womanish  imaginings,  prepared  to  enter  her  apartment 
and  find  fault  and  be  adorably  generous  all  in  one. 

Caleb  was  right  concerning  Thurley's  mannerisms. 
Her  first  adverse  criticism  proved  a  mental  stab  at  which 
she  recoiled  with  agonizing  and  amusing  self-excuses. 

"  Miss  Precore  has  adopted  an  unpleasant  habit  of 

287 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

swaying  her  body  when  her  voice  ascends  the  scale. 
Hitherto  one  of  the  greatest  delights  of  this  young  artist 
was  the  splendid  simplicity  which  charmed  every  one  who 
heard  and  saw  her.  Not  for  an  instant  did  she  forget 
the  great  essentials  of  musical  art  —  to  conceal  art  itself. 
She  was  as  unconscious  of  the  audience  or  the  opera  com- 
pany as  if  she  were,  in  truth,  the  composer's  mental  vision 
when  actually  writing  the  title  part!  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  this  habit  and  the  air  of  self-consciousness  may  be 
done  away  with  before  either  becomes  fixed.  To  lose 
such  an  example  of  artistic  triumph  as  Thurley  Precore 
has  demonstrated  to  us  would  be  irreparable." 

No  one  mentioned  the  criticism  to  Thurley  —  there 
was  no  need  to  do  so.  Two  days  after  it  was  printed 
and  her  manager  told  her  she  must  go  on  a  concert  tour 
in  February,  Thurley  dressed  herself  deliberately  in  a 
gown  as  gleamingly  white  and  glitteringly  silver  as  a  path 
of  moonlight;  it  fairly  clothed  her  in  romance.  She  tied 
green  tulle  about  her  hair  and,  taking  a  cloak  of  emerald 
green  velours,  she  drove  to  Bliss  Hobart's  apartment, 
having  had  Hortense  first  'phone  to  ask  if  he  would  be  at 
home. 

During  the  drive  she  planned  what  she  should  say  with 
the  artifice  of  a  world  coquette.  Thurley  had  fallen  prey 
to  Lissa's  spell,  yet  she  had,  being  denied  the  simple  ties 
of  acknowledged  relationships,  found  scant  solace  in  the 
bizarre  theories  of  a  small  but  powerful  portion  of  the 
world.  She  had  told  herself  with  the  recklessness  of 
youth  that  she  was  different  from  others,  therefore  she 
had  the  right  to  live  in  different  fashion,  to  love  in  differ- 
ent fashion  if  she  chose  .  .  .  she  would  not  stay  a  con- 
vent sort  of  celebrity  with  every  one  adoring  and  applaud- 
ing and  copying  her  in  every  way  imaginable  yet  no 
one  becoming  happily  related  to  her.  She  regarded  Er- 

288 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

nestine  as  a  remote,  though  precious,  older  sister  who  had 
made  a  bad  error  in  becoming  so  aloof;  she  wanted  Collin 
to  marry  Polly  Harris  in  the  good  old-fashioned  way, 
since  Polly  had  no  more  chance  of  writing  successful 
opera  than  the  fire  escape  of  her  attic  of  turning  into  a 
marble  stairway.  She  was  undecided  as  to  Caleb's  des- 
tiny. Lissa  was  interesting,  even  with  her  jealousies  and 
vanities,  her  greed  for  all  material  things  —  Thurley 
suddenly  realized  that  Lissa  was  interesting  because  she 
never  corrected  one,  she  never  proved  the  wrong  of  this 
or  the  right  of  that  —  and  who,  not  excepting  rosy  youth, 
does  not  incline  to  him  who  never  reproves  but  merely 
condones?  Mark  did  not  really  interest  Thurley,  since 
she  had  ceased  trying  to  deny  the  truth  to  herself  —  that 
she  loved  Bliss  Hobart  in  such  tense  fashion  that  she 
thought  of  him  as  her  inspiration  in  whatsoever  she  did ! 
The  only  solace  she  had  when  Hobart  busied  himself 
with  new  pupils,  going  here  and  there  to  decide  this  or 
that  question,  or  when  society  women  flocked  about  to  try 
their  best  to  fascinate,  was  that  he  treated  the  entire 
world  with  the  same  indifference  and  kindly  patronage 
and,  if  Thurley  still  hoped  through  magical  power  to 
waken  in  him  romantic  love,  she  had  sense  enough  to  keep 
her  secret  well  hidden  —  from  herself  most  of  the  time  — 
in  order  that  she  might  do  her  work  and  stay  within  his 
jurisdiction. 

She  found  Hobart  and  Caleb  Patmore  playing  chess, 
a  favorite  recreation  of  the  former's. 

"  I'm  quite  a  gamester,"  Caleb  said,  with  visible  re- 
lief as  she  appeared.  "  Ernestine  lapses  into  childhood 
via  dominoes  and  Collin  actually  stops  painting  to  drag 
me  into  casino  —  casino,  Thurley !  Why  do  you  not 
stroke  my  brow  or  show  some  symptom  of  humanity? 
Polly  Harris  yearns  for  cribbage;  you  know  Polly  still 

289 


hints  of  that  ancestry  of  hers  where  she  had  school 
marms  for  aunts  and  judges  for  uncles  and  her  cousins  all 
went  to  military  academies.  Why  this  odd  devil  takes  to 
chess  for  his  pleasure  —  I  understand  it  not.  Help,  ho, 
Thurley,  take  my  place  —  will  you?  " 

Thurley  hesitated.  It  was  not  to  her  liking  nor  her 
intention  to  have  any  one  present  at  her  visit,  but  she 
dallied  the  question  gracefully,  submitting  a  list  of  songs 
for  the  concert  tour  and  pretending  grave  anxiety  as  to 
the  recovery  of  one  of  the  songbirds  recently  in  a  motor 
accident. 

As  she  rose  to  go,  inventing  a  dinner  engagement,  Ho- 
bart  accompanied  her  into  the  reception  hall,  leaving 
Caleb  straddled  on  the  fire-settle  wondering  —  who 
knows  what? 

'  What  did  you  really  want?  "  Hobart  asked,  as  she 
paused  before  the  door.  "  Don't  tell  me  you're  going  to 
do  Red  Cross  work  and  wear  a  uniform  — " 

"  It's  the  criticism,"  she  said  simply.  "  It  hurt  —  you 
might  have  warned  me  when  you  saw  my  faults." 

"  I  warned  you  not  to  waste  summers,"  he  reminded. 
"  I  said  all  I  could.  You  are  no  longer  my  pupil  and  I 
have  other  things  which  take  my  time." 

"What  shall  I  do?"  she  demanded  petulantly.  "I 
will  not  be  a  mere  shooting-star  person  as  so  many  would 
like  to  see  me  — " 

"  Well,  well,  let  us  see."  He  placed  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders  in  the  benevolent,  paternal  fashion  she  so  ad- 
mired. But  she  spoiled  it  by  trying  to  flirt  with  him  as 
she  looked  up. 

He  dropped  his  hands  as  if  he  read  the  meaning  of 
the  coquettish  gaze.  "  Suppose  you  find  a  hobby,  Thur- 
ley; put  all  your  airs  and  mannerisms  into  it.  It  often 
works  for  the  best  good  —  what  shall  it  be?  Collecting 

290 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

butterflies  or  canes,  opening  Indian  mounds  —  trying  to 
write  a  play  —  discovering  the  fourth  dimension  —  eh?  " 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes.  And  the  big  ache  of  her 
heart  was  changed  into  a  sob  which  rose  in  her  throat 
with  a  penitent  murmur. 

"  You  are  cruel,"  she  said  in  a  fierce  little  rage. 

"  You  funny,  lovely,  little  fool !  "  he  laughed,  but  in 
soul-healing  fashion.  "  Just  be  the  old  Thurley  and  we'll 
love  you  as  we  did  at  first!  "  After  which  he  opened  the 
door  and  went  down  to  her  cab,  telling  her  how  becoming 
was  the  costume  she  wore  as  Elsa  and  promising  to  send 
her  a  book  of  golf  anecdotes  which  he  considered  excel- 
lent. She  drove  off  feeling  somewhat  as  Hortense 
Quinby  had  expressed  it  —  a  mere  onlooker  at  something 
she  craved  but  could  never  attain.  She  wanted  to  rout 
Caleb  from  the  fire-settle  and  sit  there  herself  until  Bliss 
Hobart  should  return,  to  say  to  him  with  the  assurance 
with  which  loved  wives  are  blessed, 

"  Darling,  how  stupid  of  any  one  to  come  in  to-night  — 
please  bolt  the  door  and  finish  the  story  we  started.  I'll 
snuggle  down  on  this  cushion  and  lean  against  your  knee. 
I  like  to  watch  the  fire  as  you  read  to  see  the  characters 
slip  about  the  coals.  .  .  .  I'm  very  silly,  Bliss,  but  there's 
no  need  for  me  to  reform,  God  made  you  wise  enough  for 
us  both!"  . 


291 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Spring  brought  again  the  longing  for  Birge's  Corners. 
Nothing  else  appealed  to  Thurley  in  the  way  of  a  vaca- 
tion. Europe  was  barred  from  the  engagement  tablet, 
cruising  brought  memories  of  Lissa's  yachting  party  and 
society  flirted  in  vain  with  Thurley  to  gain  her  appear- 
ance at  Allied  benefits  and  bazaars.  Beyond  a  compli- 
ance to  please  her  manager,  she  declined. 

During  the  winter  Miss  Clergy  had  become  more  and 
more  insensible  to  everything  save  the  fact  that  Thurley 
Precore  was  a  prima  donna  and  she  had  achieved  her 
aim.  Such  matters  as  vacations  were  left  in  Thurley's 
hands. 

Ernestine  had  decided  her  work  was  going  stale,  so  a 
California  school  where  only  a  handful  of  the  wise  and 
great  assembled  took  her  westward  with  scarcely  time  to 
say  good-by,  Caleb  complained. 

Caleb  devoted  himself  to  emotional  war  charities  since 
they  sold  his  books  —  particularly  when  he  would  stand 
in  the  Belgian  booth  decorated  with  streamers  like  a  true 
harlequin  and,  fountain  pen  in  hand,  await  the  onslaught 
of  damsels  demanding  he  would  autograph  their  copies  of 
his  novels. 

Lissa  also  gave  up  her  time  to  following  the  wake  of 
these  functions,  since  she  looked  well  in  lace  gowns  and 
the  supposed  patriotic  charity  on  her  part  bore  rich  re- 
turns in  the  way  of  pupils.  Watching  Lissa,  Thurley 
became  aware  of  another  truth:  to  be  an  intriguer  in  art 
or  any  other  capacity  requires  that  one  be  not  a  fool  but 

292 


possessed  of  shrewd  talents  and  determination.  It  takes 
much  time  and  foresight  to  be  successful  in  this  bent,  but 
if  one  follows  this  doubtful  path  to  achieving  distinction 
one  has  little  time  left  with  which  to  pursue  the  ethical 
path  of  sincere  work  which  wins  its  own  reward. 

Besides  being  an  intriguer,  Lissa  reflected  Mark's 
fame.  She  never  lost  an  opportunity  with  which  to  have 
their  names  associated,  to  call  herself  a  "  romantic  old 
sister  to  the  dear  lad,"  or  appear  at  his  recitals  to  sing 
some  lightweight  thing  with  the  high,  phenomenal  note 
which  alone  won  applause. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  Collin  said  to  Thurley  one  June 
afternoon  when  they  were  enduring  a  recital  of  Lissa's 
songs  at  a  lawn  fete,  "  that  God  started  in  to  give  Lissa 
a  wonderful  voice.  He  began  with  this  tiptop  note  and 
then,  as  He  realized  what  she  was  bound  to  be  in  spite 
of  every  one  concerned,  He  did  not  bestow  anything  else 
on  her,  but  she  must  have  slipped  down  to  earth  pirating 
that  note  for  surely  it  was  meant  to  be  taken  away  from 
her!" 

Thurley  nodded  her  gratitude  for  his  expression  and 
Polly,  who  was  sitting  on  Collin's  other  side,  gave  vent  to 
an  impudent  giggle. 

"  Thurley,  did  you  know  people  say  that  *  Miss  Pre- 
core  is  a  recluse  '  ?  "  Polly  asked  her  a  moment  later. 
"  That  she  refuses  to  sing  for  charity?  " 

"  Of  course  Miss  Precore  has  not  worked  all  winter, 
oh,  no,"  Thurley's  temper  flared  up.  "  Polly  and  Collin, 
I  tell  you  both  that  I  am  tired  even  to  my  professional 
expression.  Look  at  Lissa  —  look  at  Mark  —  look 
here,"  she  began,  pointing  out  other  salubrities  and  celeb- 
rities who  were  murmuring  or  warbling  "  poor  bleeding 
Europe  "  in  properly  guttural  tones. 

Polly  was  thoughtful  and  when  Collin  roused  her  to 

293 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

explain  why,  she  said,   "Suppose  we  go  to  war,  Thur- 
ley,  what  then?" 

'  We'll  do  what  is  needed,"  Thurley  said  in  as  sharp 
fashion  as  Hobart  could  have  replied. 

Hortense  Quinby  came  searching  the  audience  to  de- 
liver a  telegram  to  Thurley,  delighted  with  her  opportu- 
nity to  appear  important. 

It  was  a  good-by  note  from  Hobart  and  of  no  impor- 
tance, so  Thurley  thought  as  she  read  it : 

Dear  Thurley  — 

Leaving  for  my  vacation  to-night  and  sorry  not  to  say 
good-by,  will  send  up  the  new  operas  I  told  you  about  — 
don't  waste  this  summer,  B.  H. 

She  rose  and  excused  herself  from  the  entertainment, 
which  caused  half  the  audience  to  say  that  "  Thurley 
Precore  liked  to  create  scenes  "  and  the  other  half  "  she 
was  a  purse-proud  young  woman  with  no  patriotism." 

Polly  and  Collin  stayed  the  performance  out,  since  two 
of  the  women  Collin  had  painted  were  taking  part  in  the 
tableaux  and  had  sent  him  those  telling  three-cornered 
notes  on  mauve  linen  requesting  that  he  see  them  as 
"  France  Enraged  "  and  "  Belgium  at  Bay." 

Polly  stayed  because  Collin  stayed.  After  the  next 
number  was  well  under  way,  Collin,  stroking  that  mad, 
blond  beard  of  his,  asked, 

"What's  wrong  with  Thurley?  She's  not  been  her- 
self all  winter  and  she  is  going  off  in  her  voice." 

"  Who  wouldn't  —  living  with  a  ghost  person  and 
working  harder  than  an  engineer?  Bliss  will  find  her  a 
coach  this  fall  who  will  treat  her  mercilessly  and  make 
her  grind  again.  It  isn't  that  any  singing  teacher  can 
teach  Thurley  things;  they  merely  shut  her  up  in  figurative 

294 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

fashion  in  a  dark  closet  until  she  promises  to  behave  and 
sing  the  way  in  which  she  knows  she  should." 

"  She  went  it  rapidly  for  a  time,"  Collin  reflected, 
languidly  applauding  the  antics  of  a  folk  dance  done  by 
"  lanky  hanks  of  shes  " — "  do  look  behind  to  see  if  Hor- 
tense  Quinby  is  listening.  I've  an  idea  she  sells  her 
eavesdropping  per  word  to  Caleb  .  .  .  ever  notice  how 
she  plays  ferret  when  two  or  three  are  gathered  together 
talking  in  an  undertone?  " 

"  She's  in  pursuit  of  the  professor  of  ethnology  that 
Mrs.  Earnhardt  has  in  tow;  he's  a  widower  on  the  loose," 
Polly  chuckled. 

"  All  power  to  her  —  what's  on  for  your  summer  ?  " 

"  Work,  I  presume."  Polly's  face  lost  its  gaiety. 
Drudging  through  a  winter  of  failure  with  Bliss  Hobart 
telling  her  she  was  naught  but  wilful  in  refusing  to  accept 
the  inevitable  and  also  a  position  —  salt  in  the  wound  — 
of  assistant  librarian  for  the  opera  house  —  it  was  suffi- 
cient to  bring  about  the  change  of  expression.  "  What 
is  ahead  for  you?  " 

"  No  work,  I  refuse  all  commissions,  the  Allied  gen- 
erals might  beg  in  vain.  I'm  going  to  play;  there's  a  lot 
of  us  who  are  going  to  visit  Bliss  at  his  hermitage." 

"  What  luck!      Really  invade  his  sacred  portals?  " 

"  Well,  we  call  it  play.  I'm  to  go  and  the  Russian 
who  writes  and  that  funny  little  man  with  the  square 
head,  Tyronne  —  he  does  those  historical  essays  no  one 
reads  but  every  one  looks  at  underneath  a  glass  case  in 
a  hundred  years  or  so.  And  Caleb  and  Bliss  had  a  row 
about  Caleb's  not  writing  as  he  should  and  Caleb  isn't 
coming.  Poor  old  Sam  is  in  Lunnon  recruiting  and  he  is 
out,  too.  But  we  are  going  to  try  to  loaf  away  the  sum- 
mer. I'll  put  a  sign  on  my  gate,  Shoo  flies,  don't  bother 
me,  I've  gone  off  to  the  north  countree  — " 

295 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

He  was  selfishly  unconscious  of  Polly's  expression. 

"  How  splendid!  "  was  all  she  said.  "  I  wish  I  were 
a  boy.  I'd  go  along  as  Oolong  Formosa,  the  only  valet 
who  did  not  anger  the  master  by  gaining  a  university 
diploma  just  when  I  had  become  proficient  in  whisk 
brooming!  " 

Collin  laughed.  "  You're  a  weird  little  thought,"  he 
said  carelessly.  "  Sometimes  I  think  you'll  never  grow 
old.  We'll  be  tottering  graybeards  and  Ernestine  and 
Thurley  wrinkled  dowagers,  but  you  will  still  be  Polly, 
brown-faced  and  boyish !  Now,  I  say,  why  not  give  up 
your  big  dream  for  a  bit,  leave  it  for  the  next  lifetime  and 
will  yourself  to  be  born  a  long-haired  Polish  genius  with 
opera  scores  fairly  dripping  off  your  brow  —  come  on, 
Polly,  be  my  secretary.  I  need  one.  Look  at  the  young 
women  who  do  Caleb's  stuff  and  Ernestine  has  that  de- 
pressing, rubber  tired  young  woman  with  a  bumpy  fore- 
head and  Thurley  the  Quinby  monstrosity.  I'm  terribly 
behind.  Please,  help  a  chap  out.  It's  proper  for  you 
to  be  my  secretary  since  no  one  can  accuse  us  of  being  in 
love  —  I'll  leave  you  carte  blanche  and  the  key  to  Parva 
Sed  Apta;  you  can  tidy  me  up  like  a  good  elf,  answer 
notes  and  even  wash  my  paint  brushes."  There  was 
something  gentle  and  generous  in  Collin's  joyous  eyes  as 
he  watched  her  struggle  not  to  accept. 

"  I'd  be  slacking  from  what  I've  set  out  to  do,"  she 
said  finally.  "  This  war  may  rob  us  of  our  future  com- 
posers abroad  and  it's  my  time  to  take  their  place.  I 
study  every  night,  Collin,  no  matter  how  I've  been  work- 
ing and  I've  made  plans  for  the  summer." 

"Study  at  Parva  Sed  Apta!" 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I'd  rather  not.  Maybe  I'll 
have  to  come  to  it  some  time,  be  an  out  and  out  dependent, 
perhaps  — " 

296 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Collin  put  his  hand  down  to  cover  her  small,  brownish 
ones.  "  Why,  Polly,  you  mustn't  go  getting  morbid. 
It's  that  damned  fire  escape  and  attic  of  yours  and  the 
hungry  wolves  howling  outside  your  door  every  time 
you've  a  crumb  to  spare.  Come  along  into  the  sunshine 
—  and  filled  pantry  shelves.  Play  I'm  big  brother  to  a 
little  bohemian." 

They  were  standing  for  the  "  Star-Spangled  Banner," 
and  Polly,  glad  of  the  release,  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
lustily  sang  the  words.  But  she  persisted  in  her  refusal 
and  Collin,  a  little  displeased,  told  Caleb  before  he  left 
town  to  keep  a  weather  eye  on  Polly  and,  if  she  started 
absurd  things  like  fainting,  to  kidnap  her  and  take  her 
to  Parva  Sed  Apta  where  she  could  protest  in  helpless 
but  very  comfortable  surroundings ! 

Collin  did  not  in  the  least  understand,  despite  his  abil- 
ity to  read  his  subjects  in  banal,  neutral  fashion  and  to  see 
the  inner  meanings.  He  was  blind  to  Polly's  tragedy, 
one  of  the  most  cruel  of  tragedies  in  the  world  —  unre- 
turned  yet  undying  love. 

In  fact  Collin  was  becoming  used  to  his  subjects'  asking 
that  special  skill  be  used  in  the  painting  of  the  lace  wed- 
ding veil  or  accurate  copying  of  the  gold  braided  uniform 
of  an  army  officer  —  so  that  popular  marionettes  were 
the  result,  when  all  the  time  it  was  with  difficulty  that  his 
joyous  eyes  did  not  see  far  beneath  the  lace  veil  or  the 
uniform  and  paint  the  obscure  truths  be  they  ugly  or 
beautiful  I 

Calling  on  Thurley  a  week  after  the  garden  fete  to 
urge  her  appearance  at  a  Newport  carnival,  Caleb  was 
amazed  to  find  her  apartment  shrouded  in  gray  linen  and 
even  the  mirrors  tied  with  gauze.  Hortense,  in  the 
pleasant  role  of  a  stay-behind  martyr,  received  him  to 

297 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

tell  the  news.  Thurley  had  returned  to  Birge's  Corners 
—  the  Fincherie  was  the  name  of  Miss  Clergy's  house  — 
to  spend  the  summer! 

"  All  at  once  she  demanded  the  old  environment,  a 
strange  homesickness  engulfed  her,"  Hortense  began 
analytically,  delighted  to  have  Caleb  at  her  mercy.  "  I 
cannot  say  whether  or  not  it  is  wise  —  but  home  she  has 
gone.  Although  she  left  plenty  to  do,"  she  could  not 
refrain  from  adding,  "  but,  even  so,  it  will  be  lonesome 
for  me." 

At  which  Caleb  fled,  threatening  punishment  to  Thur- 
ley for  having  run  him  into  danger.  Later,  he  received 
a  note  stating  that  Thurley  was  at  the  Fincherie  and  she 
would  have  a  house  party  in  August,  to  save  the  time  out 
for  that  because  she  was  sure  he  would  find  plenty  of  new 
types. 

"  I'll  be  hanged,"  Caleb  ruminated  over  the  situation 
before  he  wrote  Ernestine  the  news.  "  But  didn't  Thur- 
ley leave  a  boy-sweetheart  in  Birge's  Corners?  " 


298 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

The  reopening  of  the  Fincherie  with  magical  haste, 
untold  extravagance  and  new  notions  set  the  town  gossip- 
ing anew. 

To  see  every  window  wide  open  and  Betsey  and  Hope- 
ful polishing  them  while  Ali  Baba  hurried  to  and  fro  on 
all  sorts  of  errands  bent,  to  know  that  the  stable  was 
empty  of  its  coupe  and  motor  cars  were  installed,  while 
a  pert  maid  with  a  cap  with  streamers  minced  down  the 
streets  and  smiled  superciliously  at  every  one  —  it  was 
enough  to  give  the  Corners  palpitation  of  the  heart. 

The  general  verdict  was  that  Thurley  had  returned 
"  to  lord  it  over  every  one."  A  few  more  romantically 
inclined  thought  she  had  come  back  to  "  win  Dan  from 
'Raine."  One  or  two  simple  souls  believed  she  might  be 
genuinely  anxious  to  be  at  home  again,  at  least  the  only 
home  she  had  ever  known. 

Thurley  bothered  little  with  public  opinion.  With 
false  assurance  as  to  her  ideas,  she  proceeded  to  put  them 
into  practice  without  delay.  The  devil  always  favoring 
a  new  recruit,  it  would  seem,  she  met  with  considerable 
success. 

To  still  the  wondering  as  to  Bliss's  summers,  the  lone- 
liness for  a  personal  relationship  and  the  fag  in  her  head 
brought  about  by  a  season's  hard  work  and  the  war  agita- 
tion, Thurley  played  along  in  Lissa's  own  manner. 

She  treated  the  Corners  with  good-natured  disdain. 
There  was  a  trifle  of  the  boaster  in  her  as  she  wore  her 
new  creations  and  drove  her  smart  cab  about,  smoked 
openly  and  permitted  unwrapped  cases  of  champagne  to 

299 


be  sent  up  from  the  station.  But  the  boasting  was  be- 
cause of  two  elements,  the  child's  love  of  mischief  and  the 
woman's  loneliness  and  determination  to  let  no  one  suspect 
that  she  had  repented  of  her  strange  bargain. 

She  had  driven  into  the  town  with  Miss  Clergy  beside 
her,  quite  content  as  long  as  Thurley  was  satisfied,  Thur- 
ley  in  a  startling  gown  of  mulberry  chiffon  and  a  jet  toque 
and  her  driver  in  a  trig  green  uniform  to  match  the  body 
of  the  limousine. 

The  word  spread  like  fire,  "  Thurley  Precore  is  back, 
grand  as  a  princess,  famous  as  all  outdoors  —  paint  on 
her  cheeks  —  Miss  Clergy  is  human  —  it  is  so,  all  they've 
said  about  'em  —  watch  Dan  Birge,  sore'n  a  hedgehog, 
watch  'Raine  —  there'll  be  doings  if  she  stays." 

There  was  no  attempt  at  actually  refurnishing  the  Fin- 
cherie,  but  only  to  let  sun  stream  in  and  soap  and  water 
do  its  best.  A  piano  was  the  only  added  asset  save  the 
motor  cars,  the  lady's  maid  and  Thurley's  accompanist. 
Thurley  preferred  to  have  the  contrast  of  old  style  fur- 
niture, and  Miss  Clergy  wandered  vaguely  like  a  lost 
child  through  the  rooms,  smiling  with  delight  at  the  mem- 
ories such  and  such  a  table  or  chair  recalled;  she  even 
pointed  to  where  she  had  danced  the  businesslike  little 
polka  at  her  coming  out  party. 

But  when  Thurley  came  face  to  face  with  Betsey, 
Hopeful  or  Ali  Baba,  all  trace  of  the  sophisticated  young 
woman  vanished  and  she  flew  into  their  arms  in  such  natu- 
ral fashion  that  they  afterwards  said  in  stout  defense  of 
her,  "  Thurley  ain't  changed  a  mite  —  unless  people  act 
changed  to  her  I 

Nevertheless  there  was  a  change.  No  one  can  go 
away  from  a  village  as  a  runaway  beggar  girl  taking  the 
town  mystery  and  richest  person  in  it  at  the  same  time 
and  leave  a  broken  heart  to  keep  green  her  memory, 

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THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

without  somewhat  of  a  readjustment.  Nor  can  she  re- 
turn three  years  later  both  famous  and  rich  and  lovelier 
than  ever  without  further  complications. 

The  homey  things  which  Thurley  had  anticipated 
would  set  her  right  in  magic  fashion  irritated  and  disap- 
pointed her.  She  wanted  to  return  the  same  wild  rose 
she  had  left,  being  treated  as  such.  But  her  grandeur 
was  like  a  stone  wall  over  which  the  village  took  turns  at 
peeking  and  saying,  "  Well,  well,  well,  so  this  is  Thurley 
Precore  —  well,  well,  well!  " 

Twelve  hours  after  she  had  come  into  the  town  she  was 
bored  to  extinction.  She  missed  the  excitement  of  her 
other  life  and  wondered  why  she  had  not  stayed  on  to  do 
the  things  society  had  begged  of  her.  Birge's  Corners 
was  as  removed  from  the  real  world  as  Iceland  from  the 
tropics,  they  did  not  appreciate  or  comprehend  her !  She 
was  still  just  a  "  lucky  girl"  in  their  eyes;  they  almost 
questioned  her  success.  She  would  have  to  die  and  leave 
funds  for  a  public  drinking  fountain  before  the  village 
would  acclaim  her  as  their  own  with  joy  and  alacrity. 

The  hills  seemed  small  and  stunted  and  the  air  over- 
dusty  and  hot.  The  old  drive  along  the  river  was  stupid, 
she  decided,  as  she  took  it  and  was  prepared  to  be  drifted 
back  into  enchanted  girlhood.  Her  accompanist,  who 
was  with  her,  agreed  when  Thurley  remarked  that  one 
never  remembered  childhood  joys  with  accuracy.  The 
accompanist  was  thinking  of  her  own  home  town  where 
the  hills  were  green  and  gorgeous  and  the  river  sparkling 
—  but  the  accompanist  had  not  been  home  in  some  time 
either  I 

The  summer  yawned  before  Thurley  like  a  dark  cav- 
ern. She  longed  for  fall  and  work  —  glimpses  of  Ho- 
bart  with  snubs  and  sarcasm  from  him  if  nothing  else. 
She  wanted  Ernestine;  she  felt  she  could  become  as 

301 


cynical  as  Ernestine  with  no  trouble  at  all  and  she  would 
agree  with  Caleb  that  "  kiss-baby  "  copy  was  perfectly 
proper  if  people  were  fools  enough  to  pay  for  it;  she  re- 
solved to  play  cards  for  money  the  next  winter,  as  Lissa 
urged,  and  really  to  bully  Polly  into  accepting  decent 
clothes  and  being  some  one  respectable.  She  wanted 
Collin  to  paint  her  portrait  in  a  certain  cream  satin  frock, 
because  she  wanted  to  know  what  Hobart  would  say  of 
it,  and  as  for  Mark  —  there  was  a  dangerous  expression 
in  Thurley's  eyes  as  she  thought  of  what  she  might  or 
might  not  do  concerning  him  .  .  .  besides,  there  were 
many  others  who  would  pay  her  attention,  rich,  powerful, 
foolish  creatures  who  follow  such  butterflies  as  religiously 
as  the  hounds  do  the  hares.  Every  one  must  decide  early 
in  the  game  if  he  is  to  run  with  the  hounds  or  with 
the  hares !  Thurley  had  not  yet  decided.  She  knew 
that  as  she  came  home  from  the  disappointing  river  drive 
the  last  resolve  to  be  natural  and  her  wild-rose  self  van- 
ished —  it  was  the  final  straw  which  turned  her  in  the 
way  Lissa's  white  fingers  had  pointed. 

Vows  or  no  vows,  Thurley  would  live!  And  if  she 
loved  some  one  who  chose  to  live  a  hermit's  life  —  And 
did  he  live  a  hermit's  life  despite  this  chatter  of  a  Maine 
hermitage?  There  was  room  for  reasonable  doubt. 
Thurley  would  live  as  she  pleased,  time  enough  to  take 
the  consequences! 

She  began  cheering  the  accompanist  by  promises  of  a 
house  party  and  her  own  drooping  spirits  by  the  promise 
of  thoroughly  shocking  the  narrow,  well-meaning  town. 

When  they  drove  into  the  stableyard  and  Ali  Baba 
came  out  as  was  his  custom,  Thurley  sent  the  accompan- 
ist into  the  house  and  wandered  back  with  Ali  Baba. 

"  Seems  mighty  fine  to  have  you  back,"  he  said. 

"  Good  to  be  back,  Ali  Baba.     Well,  have  I  changed  so 

302 


much?"  she  asked,  waiting  curiously  for  the  old  man's 
opinion. 

He  shook  his  head.  "  If  your  mother  was  to  have 
kissed  you  good-by,  I'm  gosh  hanged  whether  or  not  she'd 
know  you  now!  You're  a  great  lady." 

"  Nonsense,  it's  just  the  clothes.  Let's  talk  about 
every  one  else  but  me.  I  want  to  get  Hopeful  and  Bet- 
sey fur  coats  next  winter  and  you'll  have  to  find  out  the 
sort  they  like." 

"  I  guess  singin'  pays,"  he  ventured. 

Thurley  had  led  the  way  inside  the  barn  and  settled 
herself  on  a  bench.  "  How  is  June  Myers  and  Josie 
Donaldson  —  see,  I  haven't  forgotten  their  names  —  and 
—  Lorraine  —  and  Dan?"  she  tried  to  say  easily. 

Ali  Baba  glanced  at  her  shrewdly.  "  Oh,  June  is  the 
same  little  whiffet  she  always  was  and  Josie  is  tryin'  to 
write  a  play;  she'll  come  to  see  you,  don't  never  worry. 
.  .  .  We  got  a  new  kind  of  fool  here  —  Owen  Pringle; 
he  has  an  art  store  and  when  he  heard  you  was  comin', 
he  sent  to  town  for  photographs  of  you  —  I  didn't  know 
you  could  buy  'em  right  out  —  and  he  wants  you  to  auto- 
graph 'em  and  then  he'll  sell  'em  —  don't  you  write  a 
stroke  of  the  pen  —  and  his  clerk,  Cora  Spooner  —  oh, 
we  got  a  right  good  stock  of  pests  on  hand.  I  tell  you, 
Thurley,  things  ain't  like  they  used  to  be." 

"  You  didn't  say  about  —  Dan,"  Thurley  urged,  won- 
dering why  she  trembled. 

"  Fine  —  business  growing.  Was  you  scared  the  first 
time  you  come  out  on  the  stage?  " 

"  Not  much.  How  are  all  the  home  folks,  that's  what 
I  want  to  know." 

Ali  Baba  lit  his  pipe  in  democratic  fashion.  "  All  up 
to  snuff,  fools  included  .  .  .  goin'  to  sing  in  meetin'?" 

"  If  I'm  asked." 

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THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Well,  for  land's  sake  and  Mrs.  Davis,"  he  com- 
manded, "  sing  somethin'  with  a  regular  tune.  I  can't 
go  these  songs  that  slide  all  over  and  back  again  afore  a 
feller  gets  his  foot  to  tappin'  on  time.  .  .  .  Guess  you 
learned  to  sing  in  Eyetalian  from  what  you  write  Bet- 
sey?" 

"  Yes." 

He  snorted  disapproval.  To  his  mind,  as  to  the  ma- 
jority of  village  minds,  there  was  no  more  object  in  dis- 
carding one's  coherent  language  to  speak  another  than  to 
shave  off  one's  hair  and  adopt  a  wig. 

"  How  is  Lorraine?  "  Thurley  studied  the  barn  floor. 
'  Too  good  to  be  true."  Ali  Baba  stood  up  and 
started  to  examine  an  old  strap.  "  Her  pa  is  prouder 
of  her  every  minnit  .  .  .  she's  made  Dan  a  fine  wife  — 
had  me  up  for  supper  and  treated  me  as  fine  as  silk.  .  .  . 
Dan's  a  great  lad."  He  became  engrossed  in  opening 
the  buckle. 

Thurley  slipped  away.     Later,  Ali  Baba  told  Betsey, 

"  Opery  singers  or  no  opery  singers,  women  is  all 
alike.  If  they  give  a  fellow  the  mitten,  they  just  can't 
help  comin'  back  to  see  how  he's  wearin'  it!  " 

Dan  was  in  South  Wales  the  day  Thurley  arrived. 
When  he  returned  to  the  Corners  a  week  later,  the  town 
was  chattering  with  new  gusto,  but  he  learned  the  news 
from  Lorraine  herself, —  from  Lorraine,  who  had  been 
trying  to  gain  courage  enough  to  call  on  Thurley  and  blot 
out  memories  of  that  hidden  magazine  and  the  unproved 
yet  strong  impression  that  Dan  had  not  confined  him- 
self to  magazine  pictures  of  Thurley.  Just  wherein 
lay  his  infidelity  she  did  not  know;  she  shrank  as  do 
women  of  her  makeup  from  ever  discovering! 

Dan  came  in  buoyantly  to  waltz  her  around  as  was  his 

304 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

custom,  telling  of  his  success  with  this  man  and  that  and 
plans  for  the  branch  store. 

"  What's  wrong?  "  he  asked,  realizing  that  she  was  not 
dimpling  with  happiness  and  nodding  approbation  at 
every  sentence  he  spoke. 

Lorraine  disengaged  herself  from  his  arm  and  stood 
back,  twisting  her  apron  nervously.  "  The  town  has 
something  new  to  talk  about,  Dan.  Who  do  you  think 
is  back  for  the  summer?  "  laughing  nervously. 

"  I  don't  know.     Who  ever  comes  back  here?  " 

"  Miss  Clergy  —  and  Thurley."  It  was  a  relief  now 
her  name  was  spoken.  "  They've  reopened  the  Fin- 
cherie,  and  Thurley  has  a  maid  and  chauffeur  and  about 
eight  trunks  —  so  Ali  Baba  says." 

Dan  whistled  softly.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that?  " 
was  his  sole  comment. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  call  on  her,"  Lorraine  con- 
tinued bravely,  "  although  she  may  not  care  to  know  any 
one  of  us  now.  She's  so  famous  and  changed !  Ali  Baba 
says  she  smokes  and  paints  her  face  and  the  lady's  maid 
is  prettier  than  any  one  in  the  village.  She  had  her  piano 
shipped  from  New  York  and  an  accompanist  besides  I 
Do  you  think  I  ought  to  call?"  Lorraine's  little  face 
was  wrinkled  anxiously. 

"  If  you  like  —  I  don't  suppose  Thurley  does  care," 
Dan  went  over  to  the  lounge  and,  flinging  himself  down, 
picked  up  a  newspaper,  "  or  she  would  never  have  left 
here !  Anything  else  new  —  nobody  lynched  Owen  yet 
—  Cora  got  a  new  beau?  I  saw  a  travelling  man  in 
Hamilton  that  was  her  speed.  When  he  comes  here 
we'll  ask  him  over  and  let  Cora  do  her  best.  I  suppose 
Hazel  and  Josie  have  camped  out  here  while  I've  been 
away.  You  look  pale,  'Raine  —  what's  wrong  —  your 

305 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

dad  sick?  Then  come  here  and  guess  what  I  brought 
for  you  — " 

"  You're  always  bringing  me  things,"  she  said  wist- 
fully. Even  his  reassuring  words  did  not  satisfy.  They 
were  spoken  with  a  glib  uneasiness  which  did  not  deceive. 

"  You  extravagant  Dan,"  Lorraine  said,  examining  the 
silver  purse,  "  how  lovely  of  you  I  " 

"  I'm  going  to  take  forty  winks  before  supper  — 
mind?  I  can't  get  used  to  irregular  hours  and  country 
hotels.  Oh,  'Raine,  small  towns  are  the  devil's  own 
makings,  of  all  the  narrow,  carping  — "  Dan  dozed  off, 
apparently,  with  unfinished  sentiments  giving  way  to  reg- 
ular breathing. 

Lorraine  tiptoed  away.  "  He  didn't  seem  to  mind," 
she  consoled  herself  as  she  cooked  supper,  "  but  he  has 
not  seen  her!  " 

Lorraine  had.  She  watched  Thurley  as  she  drove  by, 
standing  half  hidden  behind  bushes  to  note  every  lovely, 
strange  detail  of  her  appearance,  wondering  why  Thur- 
ley, who  had  brought  the  world  to  her  feet  so  easily,  must 
return  to  this  village  to  steal  the  peace  of  mind  of  a 
woman  who  had  not  even  brought  the  one  man  she  loved 
to  her  own  timid  feet ! 

Dan  stayed  at  home  that  evening  as  if  wishing  to  prove 
his  devotion  to  Lorraine.  Usually  he  would  have  wan- 
dered down  to  the  hotel  or  the  lodge  room.  They 
talked  of  everything  else  but  Thurley's  return,  although 
each  thought  of  nothing  else,  and  in  the  morning  Dan 
said  carelessly, 

"  Don't  call  on  Thurley  unless  you  like.  I  dare  say 
she  does  not  expect  it.  Every  gawk  of  a  country  girl  will 
crowd  in  on  her,  curious  and  self-seeking,  and  if  Thurley 
wants  to  see  any  one,  she'll  come  to  them.  She  doesn't 
belong  to  the  town  any  more  but  to  the  world."  His 

306 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

voice  softened  as  he  added,  "  Good-by,  dear;  now  don't 
work  your  head  off.  I'll  lunch  at  the  hotel  —  there  is  so 
much  stuff  to  catch  up  on." 

That  same  afternoon  Dan's  car  drove  slowly  past  the 
Fincherie,  whose  crisp  curtains  and  lifted  shades  told  the 
world  a  new,  optimistic  story.  No  one  was  visible,  not 
even  the  much  discussed  lady's  maid  or  the  accompanist 
who  was  said  to  sit  on  the  lawn  and  drink  endless  cups  of 
tea  "  right  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon!  " 

Further  along  in  the  road  he  was  hailed  by  a  dreaded 
trio  —  Josie,  Hazel  and  Cora! 

"  Oh,  Dan,  do  take  us  by  her  house,"  they  began, 
waving  their  arms  in  wild  invitation.  "  We're  crazy  to 
see  her — Cora  never  knew  her,"  Josie  Donaldson  ex- 
plained by  way  of  excuse  as  they  climbed  pell  mell  into  the 
machine. 

"  I  guess  she  won't  want  to  remember  us,"  Josie  added, 
"  but  ma  sent  over  my  winter  coat  one  time  and  she  wore 
it  two  seasons  —  she  ought  to  know  me." 

"  My  aunt  helped  her  a  lot  too,"  added  Hazel  Mitch- 
ell, "  and  she  borrowed  every  one's  books.  I  don't  think 
she'll  dare  put  on  airs.  I'm  going  to  start  right  in  and 
call  her  Thurley  just  as  if  I  didn't  know  she  was  famous. 
I'm  dying  to  get  inside  that  house.  Just  think,  girls,  it 
hasn't  been  opened  for  years  until  — "  Thin  ice  was  fast 
approaching  in  the  matter  of  the  past  and  with  a  swift 
side  glance  at  Dan,  who  steered  ahead  with  a  fiendish 
hope  of  dashing  his  human  cargo  off  the  nearest  cliff, 
Hazel  winked  at  the  others  and  began  anew, 

"How's  Lorraine?" 

"  Fine  I     Where  do  you  girls  want  to  go  ?  " 

"  To  call  on  Thurley.  Please,  Dan,  drive  us  up  there. 
It'll  look  so  much  better  if  we  came  in  a  machine." 

"  Your  machine,  anyhow,"  giggled  Josie. 

307 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"Aren't  you  working  to-day?"  he  asked  Hazel  sav- 
agely. 

"  I  had  a  headache  and  the  doctor  said  I  needed  fresh 
air." 

'  Then  you  better  stay  outdoors  instead  of  calling  on 
people,  if  it's  fresh  air  you  are  after,"  he  advised. 

Nothing  but  giggles  answered  him  and  they  hailed  the 
white  clad  figure  of  Owen  Pringle,  who  held  up  his  cane 
in  threatening  fashion. 

'  You  sha'n't  have  the  prettiest  girls  all  to  yourself, 
you  old  married  man,"  he  threatened.  "  Do  let  me  sit 
in  the  back — " 

Unwillingly,  Dan  halted  the  car  and  a  new  element  of 
disturbance  was  added. 

"  We  want  to  call  on  Thurley  Precore,"  they  told 
Owen,  who  was  always  at  his  best  when  his  arms  were 
full  of  girl  and  some  one  else  was  driving  the  car. 
"  Come  along  and  we'll  ask  her  to  let  you  design  some 
hats  —  come  on." 

"  Joyful,  joyful,  joyful,"  he  began  in  an  assumed  fal- 
setto, at  which  Dan  drew  the  car  to  a  standstill  and 
looked  around  with  a  frown. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  call  on  Thurley,"  he  said  sharply, 
"  as  you  well  know.  If  you  insist  on  my  driving  you  up 
to  her  house,  I'll  do  so.  My  wife  will  call  on  her  when 
she  sees  fit." 

Which  somewhat  subdued  the  quartette,  who  mur- 
mured their  gratitude  and  were  hurriedly  raced  back  until 
the  Fincherie  was  reached.  Whispering  their  thanks, 
each  personally  thinking  what  a  dreadful  disposition  Dan 
Birge  had,  they  raced  up  the  walk  —  the  leisure  class  of 
Birge's  Corners,  as  Dan  thought  with  half  a  chuckle. 

He  was  wondering  what  Thurley  would  say  to  them, 
as  he  turned  his  machine  in  the  opposite  direction. 

308 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Dan's  car  rounded  the  driveway  of  the  cemetery,  one  of 
those  desolate  country  burial  grounds  on  a  remote  hill 
with  a  neglected  wooden  fence  running  about  it  and  wild 
shrubbery  crowding  in  on  the  graves.  He  saw  a  smart 
cab  in  front  of  the  tottering  gate.  He  knew  it  belonged 
to  but  one  person  —  Thurley  —  and  he  deliberately 
halted  his  machine  and  crossed  the  road  to  read  the  tell- 
ing monogram  T.  P.  entwined  with  fantastic  plumes,  con- 
solation for  having  no  real  ancestors  or  crest.  As  he  did 
so,  Dan  was  glad  —  glad  with  all  his  heart! 

He  climbed  the  path  which  was  nearest  Philena's 
grave.  He  knew  Thurley  would  be  beside  it. 

.  .  .  She  was  sitting  with  her  back  towards  him,  lost 
in  her  thoughts  and  unconscious  of  any  one's  being  close 
at  hand. 

Dan  paused.  He  was  trembling  —  as  Lorraine  trem- 
bled when  he  had  so  grudgingly  asked  her  hand  in  mar- 
riage. He  knew  Thurley  had  never  loved  him  in  the 
deepest  sense  —  and  yet  —  he  seemed  to  see  her  as  the 
old  wild-rose  girl  in  gingham,  waiting  for  her  lover's 
coming! 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  as  if  it  pained.  Then  he 
came  a  step  in  advance.  It  was  hard  work  to  believe  this 
was  Thurley.  She  wore  a  wonderful  silk  driving  coat 
which  covered  an  afternoon  frock  of  val  lace  tied  with 
pink  ribbons  and  a  petticoat  of  pink  satin.  Her  hat,  a 
large,  white  lace  affair,  lay  beside  her,  its  silver  ties  half 
hidden  in  the  grass.  Her  brown  hair  was  smooth  and 
glossy,  betraying  endless  brushing  and  care.  One  hand 

309 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

halfway  supported  her  splendid,  tall  self  —  it  was  very 
white  these  days  and  the  nails  shone,  while  a  ring 
of  diamonds  sparkled  up  in  triumph.  Her  pink  satin 
slipper  toes  and  the  flesh-colored  stockings  peeked  out 
coquettishly.  With  a  flash  of  humor  Dan  spied  the  tiny 
anklet  watch  on  its  braided,  glittering  chain.  Thurley 
was  very  close  to  the  crimson  rambler  plant  which  she 
and  Dan  planted  for  Philena  on  a  Memorial  Day,  long 
before  Thurley  had  said  her  reluctant  yes! 

Here  he  stepped  on  a  twig  whose  crackling  noise  caused 
Thurley  to  turn  half  way  and  glance  up  with  neither  fear 
nor  surprise  —  nor  special  delight. 

'  Why,  it's  Dan  Birge,"  was  all  she  said,  raising  her 
hand  cordially. 

"  Do  you  mind?"  His  voice  sounded  weak  and  far 
away.  u  May  I  sit  down?  I  —  I  was  passing  and  I  saw 
your  cab;  I  was  sure  it  was  yours  from  the  monogram  — " 

"If  you  like.  How  nice  to  see  you  again!"  She 
spoke  in  such  deliberate  fashion  that  Dan  wondered 
whether  she  was  pretending.  She  seemed  years  older. 
It  was  not  the  rouge  nor  the  sophisticated  look  in  the 
blue  eyes  —  nothing  one  could  describe,  unless  one  wished 
to  be  abstruse  and  say  her  soul  had  aged. 

Dan  broke  the  pause  by  saying  lightly,  "  Odd  we  should 
meet  here,  isn't  it?  I  was  out  of  town  when  you  came  — 
Lorraine  told  me  about  it  last  night.  She  asked  if  she 
should  call  —  I  didn't  know  whether  or  not  you'd  like  to 
have  her." 

"  It  would  be  most  kind,"  Thurley  said  in  the  same 
even  voice.  "  I  have  been  deluged  with  calls  —  mostly 
out  of  curiosity.  Or  to  see  if  I  would  deny  having  worn 
some  one  else's  clothes  and  having  lived  in  a  box  car  .  .  . 
the  old  car  was  used  for  kindling  for  a  poor  family,  Ali 
Baba  says." 

310 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I  didn't  know  about  it  until  it  was  too  late  to  save  it. 
It  hurt  when  I  thought  of  your  old  wagon  being  chopped 
up." 

"  Did  it?  Sentimental  goose,"  she  managed  to  laugh 
at  him. 

"Were  you  having  a  serious  'think'?"  he  asked, 
after  a  brief  silence. 

"  About  Philena  — "  She  plucked  some  long  blades 
of  grass  and  began  plaiting  them  into  a  ring.  "  How 
well  you  look !  Lorraine  takes  good  care  of  you,  doesn't 
she?  Does  she  look  as  splendidly?  " 

"  Wish  she  did  —  you'll  see  her,  no  doubt." 

"  If  I  stay  here.  I  threatened  to  move  this  morning. 
Some  old  neighbors  came  in  during  my  practice  hour  — 
they  don't  understand!  " 

"  What  made  you  come  back,"  he  asked  with  a  flash  of 
the  old  boy  spirit,  "  when  you  never  even  wrote  me!  " 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  yourself?  " 

"  No.  I'm  quite  removed  from  you  in  every  way. 
Why,  that  dress  and  ring  cost  more  than  Lorraine  spends 
in  a  year!  As  Ali  Baba  says,  '  you  are  a  great  lady  ' — 
for  you  wouldn't  have  come  back  unless  you  were,"  he 
added  honestly.  "  It  makes  us  feel  shabby  and  under- 
done by  contrast.  .  .  .  Of  course  I  never  hope  to  be  the 
same  to  you  —  you  have  everything  the  world  can  give 
you  for  pleasure  and  attention.  I'm  not  deluding  my- 
self. I'm  not  such  a  jay  as  most  of  the  boys  — " 

"  You  never  were,"  she  supplemented  quickly. 

"  I  always  tried  to  be  '  citified,'  to  wake  the  town  up 
and  keep  abreast  of  the  times.  Anyway,  I  loved  the 
finest  girl  the  village  ever  knew."  There  was  a  quiver  in 
his  voice.  It  was  like  reopening  a  newly  healed  wound 
and  letting  it  bleed  a  trifle. 

"  And  you  married  her,"  Thurley  insisted,  the  coquette 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

coming  to  the  surface.     She  tilted  her  head  to  look  down 
at  him  through  half  closed,  purplish  eyes. 

"  I  loved  her —  and  I  have  a  splendid  wife,"  Dan  cor- 
rected. 

'What  a  lot  happens  in  three  years!  "  Thurley  fin- 
ished the  grass  ring  and  stuck  it  on  her  engagement  fin- 
ger. "  Shall  I  make  one  for  you?  " 

"Do!  Ought  I  to  be  here  taking  up  your  time? 
Perhaps  you  wanted  to  get  away  from  every  one  or  you 
wouldn't  have  come."  Dan  felt  the  contrast  between 
them  more  and  more;  his  clothes  seemed  poorly  fitted 
and  his  scarf  pin  a  trifle  gaudy,  his  shoes  the  fire-sale  va- 
riety—  a  country  bumpkin  beside  this  adorable,  tall  girl 
in  the  lace  and  pink  satin  with  distracting,  tangly  ribbons. 

"  I  like  to  talk  to  you,  Dan.  I  wondered  how  we 
would  meet!  " 

"What  made  you  come  back?"  he  demanded.  "It 
wasn't  the  Corners  and  I  don't  flatter  myself  it  was  me 
.  .  .  for  you  could  have  written  me  at  any  time  and  I 
would  have  come !  " 

The  slim  fingers  stopped  plaiting  the  grass.  "  Would 
you  —  really?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  despairing  eyes.  "  Did  you 
get  any  big  baskets  of  orchids  and  lilies  with  a  card, 
'  from  an  old  friend  '  ?  " 

"  Were  they  from  you?  "  she  said  sadly.  "  Oh,  Dan, 
it  was  too  bad  you  ever  had  to  care  for  me !  " 

"  Can  you  stop  the  birds  from  singing  or  the  sun  from 
shining  —  or  a  fool  for  loving  some  one  very  fine?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  Thurley  looked  out  at  the  hills.  "  That's 
always  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  —  not  the  caring 
for  some  one  but  caring  for  some  one  who  doesn't  care 
for  you !  " 

Dan   reached  over  to   take   her  hand.     "  Is   it  that 

312 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

that  brought  you  here?  "  he  asked  tenderly.  "  Doesn't 
some  one  love  you?  You  needn't  answer.  I  know  .  .  . 
so  fame  isn't  enough,"  he  dropped  her  hand  almost 
roughly.  "  Everything's  in  the  devil  of  a  mess,"  he 
remarked  to  no  one  in  particular. 

Thurley  caught  the  drift  of  his  remark.  "  It's  the 
devil  of  a  mess,"  she  repeated  clearly,  •"  because  we  are 
not  bad  enough  to  be  all  bad  and  do  terrible  things  that 
blot  out  the  hurts  or  not  all  good  so  we  can  be  saints  with 
wings  and  harps  for  consolation  ...  we  just  struggle 
—  most  of  us." 

"  When  did  you  know  I  was  married?  " 
"  The  night  of  my  debut  —  like  a  story,  isn't  it?  " 
"  And  we  were  there  — 'Raine  and  I  —  on  our  wed- 
ding trip."     After  three  years'  attempt  at  bravado,  the 
real  heart  of  him  was  allowed  to  suffer,  suffer  as  it  should 
have  done  three  years  ago  instead  of  fanning  revengeful 
temper  on  as  a  worthless  substitute. 

Thurley  faced  him  directly,  hugging  her  long  legs  un- 
der her  boy  fashion.  "  I'm  not  worth  it.  The  best  part 
of  me  is  my  voice,  Dan.  Only  the  worst  part  of  me 
isn't  content  to  have  it  that  way.  I've  worked  mighty 
hard  since  we  said  good-by —  I've  known  all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  people,  great  and  near  great,  good  and 
bad  —  I've  had  all  sorts  of  men  make  love  to  me  and 
I've  encouraged  all  sorts  of  men  —  just  so  far.  I've 
done  things  no  one  would  approve  of  my  doing  and 
some  things  that  only  a  few  could  approve  of  or  under- 
stand. Mostly  though  I've  worked  and  worked  and 
I've  decided  that  it  is  either  work  for  me  all  my  days 
if  I'm  to  keep  on  singing,  or  else  I'll  stop  working  and 
love  and  be  loved,  perhaps.  But  the  two  do  not  go  hand 
in  hand  .  .  .  perhaps  I'm  bitter." 

"  She  made  you  promise  never  to  marry,"   Dan  in- 

313 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

terrupted;  "she  is  a  selfish  old  woman  who  wasn't 
fair!" 

Thurley  nodded.  "  Love  made  her  insane,"  she  de- 
fended. 

After  a  moment  Dan  said,  "  Sing  for  me,  Thurley,  like 
you  used  to  —  when  things  were  different." 

Reaching  out  her  hand,  Thurley  held  his  in  simple 
palship  as  she  sang  in  a  hushed  voice  the  old  tunes  they 
both  had  loved.  As  she  finished,  he  said  with  an  effort, 

"  Maybe  we  better  not  see  each  other  this  summer." 

'Why  not?" 

"  Because  I'm  only  a  small  town  man  with  a  mighty 
fine  wife  and  you  are  a  genius  coming  here  to  amuse  your- 
self, to  make  yourself  forget  some  one  who  doesn't  love 
you  —  and  that's  not  a  wise  combination!  I'm  liable  to 
lose  my  head  ...  I  kept  it  pretty  well  after  you  left." 

"  Do  you  blame  me?"  She  seemed  contrite  herself. 
"Were  you  fair?" 

"  I  suppose  not.  It  was  just  the  choice  of  two  futures 
—  you  chose  the  one  intended  for  you.  Only  now  that 
you've  chosen,  don't  keep  on  bruising  yourself  and  every 
one  else  by  trying  to  —  trying  to  — " 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  me?  "  She  was  determined 
to  have  some  one  want  to  see  her  own  self,  whether  or 
not  she  sang  a  single  note. 

"  Don't  I  want  to?  I'll  always  want  to."  He  came 
closer  to  her.  '  Were  you  never  sorry  you  went  away? 
It  would  help  a  lot  to  know." 

Closing  her  eyes  and  remembering  as  little  of  the  three 
years  as  was  possible,  nothing  of  her  vow  or  Lorraine, 
Thurley  gave  vent  to  her  starved  womanhood.  "  A 
little,"  she  whispered. 

"  Then  I  will  see  you  and  be  your  pal,"  was  his  an- 
swer. "  Let  me  be  just  that.  No  one  can  say  there's 

3H 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

aay  harm  in  it  —  not  even  'Raine.  I'll  have  her  call 
on  you,  Thurley;  that  will  make  it  right."  He  was  very 
close  now,  his  cheek  almost  touched  her  own.  She  drew 
away. 

"  In  opera  those  tenors  make  love  as  if  you  were  their 
own,"  he  said  savagely.  "  I  hated  to  see  it!  " 

"  But  you  were  on  your  wedding  journey,"  she  re- 
minded. 

They  both  laughed,  jangling,   noncontagious  sounds. 

"  But,  Dan,  we'd  never  have  gotten  along,"  she  re- 
minded him.  "  I'm  a  creature  of  whims  and  moods  — 
spoiled,  of  course,  it  was  inevitable."  She  began  telling 
some  of  her  experiences. 

"  But  you  won't  forbid  my  being  just  pal,"  he  urged, 
as  she  consulted  the  anklet  watch  and  found  it  tea-time. 

"  Not  if  you're  content  to  have  it  that  way,"  she  prom- 
ised. "  Run  along  and  I'll  follow,  it  would  never  do  to 
have  us  drive  off  in  unison." 

As  she  stood  up  her  rumpled  lace  draperies  made  her 
seem  more  like  a  little  girl. 

"  Thurley,  Thurley,"  he  said  in  sort  of  impassioned 
reverie,  "  you  have  come  back  to  me  — " 

"  Only  for  the  summer,"  she  answered  in  gay  decision. 
"  Oh,  Dan,  remember  I  haven't  really  found  myself,  nor 
shall  I,  perhaps.  So  think  of  me  as  lightly  as  you  can. 
My  present  state  of  mind  would  permit  of  but  one  motto 
for  over  my  fireplace, 

'  Forty  miles  from  wood, 
Forty  miles  from  water, 
Forty  miles  from  hell  — 
God  bless  our  home ! ' ' 

Lorraine  knew  Dan  had  visited  with  Thurley,  so  did 
the  village.  She  wisely  kept  her  counsel  and  consented  to 

315 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Dan's  stammering  request  that  she  call  on  Thurley  — 
"  after  all,  it  might  look  queer  if  she  did  not." 

So  she  went,  as  much  of  a  martyr  as  she  had  been  when 
she  brought  Thurley  the  blue  set  for  an  engagement 
present.  This  time  she  passed  into  the  parlors  of  the 
old-fashioned  house  aglow  with  their  pretty  trifles  and 
cut  flowers,  the  grand  piano  in  the  center  like  a  precocious 
and  not  to  be  ignored  child,  and  met  Thurley  in  timid, 
dignified  manner,  taking  count  of  her  Parisian  costume, 
her  new  mannerisms  and  accent,  her  rather  flippant  opin- 
ions of  the  topics  of  the  day,  promising  her  thumping 
little  heart  that  when  she  was  alone,  in  the  peace  of  her 
own  house,  she  would  struggle  to  regain  her  poise  and 
contentment  of  mind  which  this  astonishingly  charming 
yet  affected  person  fairly  wrested  from  her! 

In  fact  Birge's  Corners  called  on  Thurley  prepared  to 
ask  curious  and  mortifying  questions,  only  to  make  a 
hurried  exit  in  quite  a  different  frame  of  mind.  For 
with  a  perfectly  cordial  manner  Thurley  met  all  alike. 
She  had  a  faculty  of  making  them  feel  their  own  selves 
quite  impossible;  they  were  ill  at  ease  before  her  —  nor 
did  they  ask  her  to  sing,  she  forestalled  that  before  the 
subject  of  the  weather  was  exhausted.  They  left  saying 
that  "  Thurley  had  a  way  with  her  —  and  Dan  could 
thank  his  lucky  star  he  had  been  saved  from  the  mar- 
riage." Thurley  repaid  no  calls  —  not  even  to  Lor- 
raine, although  the  latter  had  asked  her  from  a  sense 
of  duty.  She  lived  in  her  own  way  at  the  Fincherie 
with  Miss  Clergy  nodding  approval  on  whatsoever  she 
did  or  demanded.  In  a  short  time,  when  she  flooded  the 
town  with  what  the  village  dubbed  as  lunatics,  no  one 
was  over-keen  to  have  her  call. 

The  "  lunatics  "  were  men  with  bangs,  wearing  broad 
scarlet  sashes  and  going  without  hats  in  the  sun,  sketching 

316 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

under  white  umbrellas  and  talking  "  some  queer  lan- 
guage ";  the  women  had  bobbed  their  hair  and  possessed 
more  gowns  than  brains;  they  slept  away  half  the  morn- 
ing and  danced  away  half  the  night  while  Thurley  was  the 
gayest  of  all  the  strange  company,  turning  the  Fincherie 
lawn  into  a  stage  to  have  tableaux  and  folk  dances,  and 
all  her  guests,  bobbed-haired  or  banged  or  what  not, 
scowled  at  the  natives  curiously  and  commented  upon 
them  audibly  as  if  they  were  insensible  of  understanding. 

Dan  Birge  was  seen  driving  with  Thurley,  drinking 
tea  on  the  Fincherie  lawn,  being  a  spectator  at  the  en- 
tertainments. Lorraine  grew  more  fragile-looking  but 
kept  her  own  counsel  and  Owen  Pringle  failed  to  secure 
an  autograph  or  an  order  for  a  bonnet,  while  Josie,  Cora 
and  Hazel  found  no  encouragement  or  interest  shown  in 
their  dramatic,  musical  or  matrimonial  futures! 

Presently,  the  Corners  said  it  would  be  a  blessing  if 
Thurley  Precore  would  choose  some  other  place  to  spend 
her  summers.  Whatever  made  her  pa  and  ma  drive  into 
the  town  in  the  first  place?  She  would  get  her  "  comeup- 
ment  "  for  this  smartness,  to  say  nothing  of  a  real  white 
slave  dance  which  she  gave,  at  which  she  was  auctioned 
off  to  a  big  fat  man  with  white  hair  and  a  tucked,  crepe 
de  chine  shirt,  who  made  his  living  playing  on  a  little 
penny  whistle  !  The  devil  did  not  have  all  the  good  times 
in  the  world  —  neither  would  Thurley  Precore.  The 
older  generation  had  felt  from  the  first  it  was  not  boding 
good  luck  to  have  so  great  a  spirit  develop  suddenly  via  a 
partly  demented  recluse.  Here  was  proof  enough  1 
For  Thurley  and  her  friends  neither  went  to  church  nor 
patronized  church  social  affairs.  They  lived  "  like  they 
tell  of,"  was  the  report,  "  just  as  like  to  get  up  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  to  go  on  hollerin'  and  yellin'  like 
to  wake  the  dead  or  else  sleep  like  logs  until  noon  .  .  . 

317 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

and  if  Miss  Clergy  thought  she  had  done  a  smart  thing 
in  makin'  so  much  out  of  Thurley  because  Thurley  used 
to  be  able  to  carry  a  tune,  she  had  an  awful  awakening 
ahead  of  her!  " 

"  She'll  never  get  her  married  off  to  no  one,"  the  vil- 
lage further  commented,  when  Thurley  in  a  tight  fitting 
black  habit  had  cantered  up  and  down  the  streets  on  a 
snowy  white  mare,  while  a  moving  picture  man  from  New 
York  patiently  lurked  along  the  roadside  to  catch  a  few 
poses.  "  Dan  Birge  ought  to  go  down  on  his  knees  to 
thank  Lorraine  for  marryin'  him  .  .  .  but  does  he? 
Oh,  no,  when  he  gets  down  on  his  knees  it's  only  to  tie  up 
Thurley's  shoe  latches!  Never  mindin'  his  business  nor 
his  wife's  fadin' —  nor  the  sport  they  make  of  him  right 
to  his  face  —  he's  a  worse  fool  than  they  are!  " 

When  the  Corners  became  aware  that  Thurley's  ter- 
rier, Taffy,  had  several  sets  of  harness  and  sweaters,  they 
decided  it  was  far  more  depraved  than  Dan  Birge's  buy- 
ing a  dog  and  having  him  ride  in  the  front  seat  of  the  car. 
Following  on  the  heels  of  this  discovery,  the  terrier  had 
a  birthday  party  with  a  frosted  cake  and  three  candles, 
and  the  newspaper  editor  admitted  that  they  had  sent  in  a 
paragraph  describing  the  event,  fully  expecting  it  would 
be  published.  Upon  being  pressed  for  the  details,  the 
editor  said  the  sum  total  of  the  description  read, 

'  Taffy  Precore  was  the  proud  recipient  of  many  hand- 
some gifts,  including  a  set  of  white  rubbers  from  Madame 
Lissa  Dagmar  and  an  unusually  attractive  travelling  coat 
from  Collin  Hedley.  Covers  were  laid  for  fourteen  and 
special  out-of-town  guests  were  Woofie  Airedale,  whose 
guardian  is  Siri  Mantenelli,  the  opera  singer,  and  Ogre, 
foster  child  of  Ernestine  Christian !  " 

But  even  this  atrocity  was  matched  —  Dan  Birge  had 
given  Taffy  an  expensive  feed  tray  and  was  present  at 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  party.  Hazel  Mitchell  took  the  day  off  to  circu- 
late the  rumor  which  developed  into  the  report  that 
the  tray  was  not  aluminum  but  Haviland  china  with  a 
hand-painted  monogram  in  the  center !  Had  Dan  been 
seen  kissing  Thurley  he  could  not  have  been  more  bit- 
terly condemned.  Truly,  Thurley  Precore  must  get  her 
"  comeuppance." 

Ali  Baba  summarized  it  one  late  summer's  day  as  he 
watched  Caleb,  Polly  and  Thurley  play  tennis  against 
Collin,  returned  from  Bliss's  hermitage,  Mark  and  Lissa. 

"  Well,  Betsey,"  he  said,  leaning  on  his  lawn-mower 
handle,  "  these  women  covered  with  lady  powder  and 
their  dresses  cut  so  low  as  to  leave  a  fust  rate  advertisin' 
space  and  these  fellers  a-whangin'  and  a-bangin'  at  their 
fiddles  or  tryin'  to  paint  a  pretty  little  blue  lake  to  look 
like  a  green  icicle  and  none  of  'em  mendin'  a  sock  or 
drivin'  a  nail  or  carin'  about  anything  except  who  can 
eat  the  most  or  laff  the  loudest,  all  of  'em  thinkin'  '  what's 
yours  is  mine  and  what's  mine  is  my  own  ' —  I  want  to 
tell  you  Thurley's  got  to  get  rid  of  the  whole  bunch, 
if  she's  goin'  to  be  worth  a  pinch  of  snuff.  This  way 
she'll  neither  be  fish  nor  flesh  nor  good  red  herring!  " 


319 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

After  a  busy  but  personally  unsatisfactory  winter,  the 
war  clouds  for  America  gathering  without  pause,  Thurley 
admitted  to  Ernestine  that  she  now  understood  the  need 
for  nerve  specialists,  that  she  agreed  fully  with  him  who 
has  said,  "  a  state  of  emotion  without  some  action  as 
an  outlet  is  immoral,"  and  she  proceeded  to  drink  more 
black  coffee  and  light  wine  than  was  good  for  her, 
jeopardize  her  eyes  by  midnight  reading  of  morbid  Rus- 
sian novels  and  to  carry  on  half  a  dozen  affairs  with 
Mark  as  a  sort  of  everlasting  threat  in  Lissa's  direction. 
Yet  in  her  work  Thurley  had  increased  in  ability  and  in- 
terpretation ;  her  Juliet,  Ophelia  and  La  Tosca  were  each 
welcomed  as  superb  achievements. 

"  Because,  my  child,  you  are  burning  up  your  personal 
habits  and  tastes  and  nice  Jersey  cow  nerves,"  Ernestine 
said  with  delicious  melancholy.  "  I  knew  it  was  inevi- 
table —  you  could  never  stay  the  rosy-cheeked  schoolgirl. 
You'll  keep  on  using  up  your  personal  endowments. 
Fame  is  a  cruel  stepmother  to  personal  happiness  and 
you'll  be  like  the  rest  of  us  —  quite  impossible  except 
when  you  are  before  the  public." 

At  which  decree  Thurley  fled  to  engage  in  a  rousing 
afternoon  of  ice  skating  with  Mark,  only  to  have  Lissa 
dart  down  on  them  with  her  purring,  dangerous  smile  and 
rescue  Mark.  She  then  sent  him  on  an  errand  and  drove 
Thurley  home  in  order  to  bestow  a  few  feminine 
scratches. 

"  I'm  quite  shocked,  dearie,"  Lissa  began  as  they 

320 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

bowled  through  the  park,  "  to  think  you'd  take  up  with 
the  country  bumpkin  —  really,  with  your  career  and  looks 
and  the  way  you've  been  keeping  your  hand  in  with 
Mark — "  a  bit  of  a  pause  here — "  it  seems  to  me  you 
ought  to  play  for  bigger  stakes  than  that  funny  store- 
keeper from  Birge's  Corners  .  .  .  aha,  you  are  blush- 
ing! I'm  glad  you  admit  guilt.  All  well  enough  when 
you  lived  in  that  queer  place  and  he  was  the  richest  man 
in  it.  It  is  always  well  enough  when  one  knows  the  rich- 
est man,  no  matter  how  queer  the  place!  But  now, 
Thurley,  with  the  desirables  you  could  — " 

"  Dan  is  an  old  friend  —  nothing  more,"  Thurley  de- 
fended. 

"  Then  keep  your  sentiment  in  check  until  you  go  back 
to  that  queer  place,  for  you've  let  him  come  to  town  to 
see  you  —  twice  that  I  know  about."  Lissa's  eyes 
danced  with  delight. 

"  He  comes  to  buy  things  for  his  store."  Thurley  was 
strangely  alarmed  at  the  secret  being  discovered. 

"  Does  it  mean  he  must  see  you?  I  suppose,  poor  lad, 
he  spends  half  his  profits  on  you.  What  sort  of  a  bonnet 
will  his  wife  have  for  spring?  Oh,  Thurley,  if  only 
Bliss  and  Ernestine  hadn't  tried  to  make  you  a  nun  and  an 
opera  singer  at  once  —  wrong — all  wrong  as  can  be." 

Thurley  felt  it  was  her  turn  to  scratch.  "  Anyway, 
Lissa,  Dan  is  harmless;  he's  only  a  shopkeeper  and  I'm 
not  stopping  his  career." 

"You  allude  to  Mark?"  this  with  dangerous  sweet- 
ness. 

"  Of  course,  you  make  him  a  mediocre  dancer  when 
he's  the  ability  to  be  something  fine  and  big  —  I  don't 
know  what,  but  I'm  saying  it  is  wrong  for  him  to  merely 
dance  and  if  you'd  prod  him  the  other  way,  I'm  sure  he'd 
go.  Besides,  there's  no  way  out  for  you  two,  is  there? 

321 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

I  can't  imagine  your  marrying  any  one  and  it  isn't  fair 
to  Mark  —  he'll  be  dry  rot  before  he  knows  it." 

"  I  married  a  mild  person  a  long  time  ago;  he  let  me 
gain  my  freedom  in  my  own  way  —  it  is  more  satisfac- 
tory to  be  Madame  Dagmar  than  plain  Miss.  I  advise  a 
marriage  for  the  sole  reason  that  the  world  always  takes 
more  interest  in  you;  they  are  determined  to  find  out  what 
made  the  marriage  go  awry.  When  critics  begin  to  har- 
poon, Thurley,  get  married,  be  divorced  and  you'll  find  a 
sympathetic  welcome  from  the  public."  She  lifted  her 
gold  chain  with  its  dangling  pencils,  rouge  boxes,  tiny 
brandy  flasks  and  other  trifles,  swinging  it  back  and  forth 
with  a  clinking  sound. 

"  But  Mark  —  is  so  young  — " 

"  And  I  am  so  old?  What  an  amiable  little  girl  it  is! 
I  can  stay  young  as  long  as  youth  loves  me."  She  seemed 
a  wicked  person  hiding  under  a  girl's  mask.  "  Don't 
worry  about  Mark  —  unless  you  happen  to  be  in  love  with 
him." 

When  Thurley  came  home  that  afternoon,  she  found 
a  basket  of  flowers  from  Dan  and  a  note  saying  he  would 
be  in  New  York  before  June.  Trips  to  New  York  were 
not  ordinary,  easily  managed  affairs  for  Dan.  He  must 
plan  to  be  away  without  being  suspected.  Then  he  would 
come  to  town  and  stay  at  a  hotel,  restless,  eager  and 
thoroughly  ashamed  if  he  would  but  admit  it,  until  Thur- 
ley permitted  him  to  see  her,  drove  with  him,  entertained 
him  at  her  apartment,  treating  him  in  a  half  patronizing, 
half  genuine  manner  —  not  quite  clear  herself  either  as  to 
her  motives  or  emotions.  It  was  as  impossible  to  think 
of  an  actual  intrigue  with  Dan  Birge  as  to  associate 
schoolboys  in  the  lower  forms  with  being  regular 
brigands.  True,  they  play  at  it  —  it  is  often  their  pet 
past«me  —  but  there  is  a  prompt  ending  of  it  when  the 

322 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

supper  bell  rings,  wooden  swords  and  false  faces  are 
willingly  left  in  the  woodshed  and  plain  Tommies  and 
Jacks  cluster  around  the  table ! 

So  it  was  with  Dan.  Thurley,  talking  to  him  of  this 
or  that,  of  anything  save  the  things  she  would  have  liked 
to  talk  of,  now  scolding  him,  threatening  to  send  him 
home,  playing  now  that  she  was  annoyed,  now  that  she 
was  sentimental,  now  pensive  or  even  angry, —  Thurley 
was  doing  a  simple  and  a  natural  thing,  proof  of  what 
Ernestine  had  prophesied.  Thurley  was  using  Dan  as 
her  whipping  boy,  outlet  for  her  repressed  and  lonely 
self.  Dan  was  the  ooze,  some  one  human  to  whom 
she  could  vent  her  whims  and  moods;  some  one  whole- 
some and  clean-minded  with  whom  she  was  entirely  at 
ease.  She  selfishly  refused  to  think  of  the  apparent  in- 
discretion, the  lack  of  honor  which  she  incurred  when  she 
let  him  come  from  the  Corners  to  stay  in  New  York  a 
week  while  she  showed  him  her  restless  woman's  self,  and 
let  his  own  man's  heart  learn  to  want  her  in  new,  danger- 
ous fashion. 

Yet  Dan  was  "  playing  "  too.  After  all,  Lorraine  was 
his  wife  and  he  had  grown  fond  of  her  —  used  to  her 
would  be  more  truthful  and  less  romantic.  She  was 
"  mighty  good  to  have  about."  It  was  a  relief  to  return 
from  New  York  with  memories  of  Thurley  as  the  great 
opera  singer,  aloof,  coquettish,  temperamental,  useless 
save  for  her  own  work,  and  find  the  sunny  little  home 
with  Lorraine  who  never  questioned  his  absence  nor 
shirked  in  her  tasks.  And  if  the  tapestry  furniture, 
Queen  Anne  walnut  and  mahogany  pedestals  with  plaster 
statues  got  on  Dan's  nerves  when  he  recalled  Thurley's 
strangely  beautiful  apartment,  and  Lorraine's  dowdy 
frocks  made  him  visualize  Thurley  in  some  wonderful 
swirl  of  satin  and  lace  —  Dan  realized  that  a  man  may 

323 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

be  happily  married  and  yet  partly  in  love  with  some 
one  else  at  the  same  time.  After  this  realization,  he  re- 
ordered his  life  to  fit  the  situation  and  his  generosity  to 
Lorraine,  like  his  manner,  was  dangerously  kind  and 
thoughtful.  The  town,  which  would  never  exhaust  Thur- 
ley's  return  as  a  topic  for  debate,  said,  fooling  its  nar- 
row little  self,  "  I  guess  Dan  is  sorry  for  how  he  acted !  " 

Sometimes  Thurley  wondered  if  Bliss  Hobart  knew 
of  Dan's  visits.  Once  she  was  determined  to  make  him 
speak  to  her  about  something  save  her  voice  and  decided 
to  tell  him,  but  he  forestalled  her  by  saying  that  the 
"  songbirds  "  were  giving  him  an  album  as  a  present  and 
although  he  did  not  care  which  picture  most  of  them 
selected  for  his  gift,  he  had  an  idea  he  wanted  Thurley 
as  her  own  self  and  not  in  any  costume  role  —  did  she 
mind? 

They  were  in  his  office  when  he  made  the  request,  Bliss 
sitting  at  his  desk,  as  he  had  been  sitting  the  first  time 
she  had  seen  him,  his  fingers  touching  the  little  mascot 
she  had  shyly  presented  that  initial  and  wretched  Christ- 
mas. 

"  Of  course  not," —  knowing  she  blushed  unbecomingly. 
"  What  sort  of  a  '  myself '  picture  will  your  majesty 
have?" 

"  Oh,  just  Thurley  —  when  you  blush  do  you  know  you 
leave  the  rouge  boundaries  far  behind?  Please  don't  do 
your  hair  like  oyster  shells  —  Lissa  is  the  only  person 
sufficiently  vulgar  to  do  so  —  and  wear  a  close  fitting 
white  turban  besides!  " 

Emboldened  by  his  request  Thurley  ventured  further, 
;t  What  makes  you  order  me  about  so?  Am  I  always  to 
be  a  novice  in  your  eyes?" 

"  I  like  to  remember  you  as  you  were  that  first  Christ- 
mas. I  do  think,  Thurley,  Christmas  is  the  only  time  I 

324 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ever  allow  myself  to  be  sentimental.  Remember  how 
you  looked  in  your  blue  serge,  bright  red  coat  with  silver 
buttons  and  an  ermine  tarn  tumbling  off  your  head  —  a 
splendid,  real  thing  you  were." 

"  I've  a  picture  taken  then,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Say  it  is  mine  and  I'll  tell  you  a  secret  —  the  greatest 
sculptor  in  the  world  is  to  be  my  guest  very  shortly.  He 
is  here  from  his  native  land,  Alsace-Lorraine,  to  gather 
funds.  He  will  speak  to  us  because  I'm  going  to  give 
him  a  party  and  at  the  same  time  Collin  will  have  the 
surprise  of  his  life!  " 

"  Not  going  to  be  married?  " 

"  You  women !  Worse  luck.  I  say  —  his  picture, 
*  Cupid  and  the  Peacock,'  has  been  given  the  French 
medal  —  and  the  master  will  announce  it  to  him." 

"  I'll  send  the  picture  up  to-morrow,"  Thurley  prom- 
ised. 

Hobart's  eyes  were  twinkling  and  tender  all  in  one. 
"  Well,  well,  I'm  more  important  than  the  great  sculptor 
or  Collin's  success !  Thurley,  you  are  becoming  dan- 
gerous I  Some  day  we  shall  have  a  great  reckoning,  you 
and  I,"  and  before  she  could  tell  him  of  Dan  he  had 
bustled  her  out  of  the  room,  teasing  her  until  she  wished 
she  had  refused  him  a  photograph  of  her  own  self. 

When  Thurley  sat  at  Hobart's  supper-table  to  listen 
to  the  old  master  speak  of  Collin's  brilliant  but  heart- 
less picture,  as  he  aptly  described  it,  and  then  a  little  of 
his  treasure  trove  of  art  knowledge,  as  she  saw  his 
stooped  and  wasted  body  wrapped  humorously  in  a  gay 
shawl  despite  social  custom,  his  face  dark  and  dotted 
with  bumps  and  wrinkles  as  a  New  England  field  is  with 
granite  boulders,  wild  white  hair  like  white  flames  leap- 
ing from  his  skull  .  .  .  she  missed  the  beauty  and  the 
wisdom  of  his  words.  Instead,  her  young  and  attractive 

325 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

self  recoiled  from  the  physical  appearance  of  this  genius 

—  the  price  the  master  paid  in  order  to  concentrate,  shut 
out  the  things  of  romance,  everyday  diversion.     As  she 
looked  at  the  faces  so  intent  on  the  great  man's  words 

—  words  like  a  benediction,  it  seemed,  for  he  knew  his 
days  were  numbered  —  it  seemed   to  Thurley  she  saw 
naught  but  distorted,  repressed  or  self-indulged  expres- 
sions and  she  must  rise  and  leave  the  room,  go  into  the 
world  a  young,  untalented  girl  doing  some  senseless,  regu- 
lar thing  and  let  those  who  should  love  her  for  her  own 
self  speak  out  and  prove  their  worth;  that  this  drowsy 
hum  about  fame  and  genius  was  nothing  but  a  sedative  the 
unloved  adopt  to  still  the  ache.     She  did  not  want  to 
sing  better  than  any  one  else,  better  than  Jenny  Lind,  so 
the  world  told  her,  she  wanted  to  sing  poorly  —  and  have 
one  man  say,  "  I  love  you  — " 

Her  hands  clenched  together  under  the  cobwebby  table- 
cloth, as  she  realized  that  she  had  pledged  to  remain 
aloof  from  such  possibilities  and,  by  so  doing,  she  had  met 
the  man  whom  she  would  always  love  .  .  .  she  won- 
dered if  she  had  betrayed  her  lack  of  interest  in  the 
master.  He  was  saying  slowly, 

'  The  two  great  influences  helping  me  to  attain  my 
mark  were,  first,  my  mother  was  my  friend;  then,  when 
middle  age  waned  and  inspiration  seemed  to  have  taken 
flight,  I  heard  Bliss  Hobart  sing,  and  so  I  went  on." 
He  was  droning  now  over  some  technical  thing  but  Thur- 
ley kept  hearing  the  words,  "  I  heard  Bliss  Hobart  sing," 
and  with  redoubled  determination  she  promised  herself  to 
rouse  the  man  in  him  to  speak  to  her,  to  give  her  fresh 
inspiration,  new  courage  —  to  go  on  alone. 

"  Everything  is  symbol,"  the  master  was  concluding, 
"  and  there  must  be  unity  about  all  artists  no  matter  how 
disconnected  and  illogical  they  may  appear  on  the  surface. 

326 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

The  artist  must  not  trust  anything  but  his  eyes,  for  they 
shall  see  the  inner  truth  of  whatever  he  is  choosing  to 
depict.  Ugliness  to  the  vulgar  becomes  beauty  to  the 
artist,  for  he  sees  the  inner  meaning  of  it  and  knows 
that  by  portraying  it  faithfully  he  can  destroy  it.  Take 
the  picture,  statue,  word  description  or  acted  part  of 
the  drunkard,  prostitute,  the  fool,  the  pervert  —  do  they 
not  cause  the  sane  yet  inartistic  person  to  turn  away  in 
horror,  resolved  a  thousand  times  more  strongly  to  live 
right?" 

.  .  .  Here  Thurley's  mind  wandered  back  to  the  old 
man's  confession,  "  I  heard  Bliss  Hobart  sing,"  and  she 
was  lost  in  reverie  until  she  caught  again  the  master's 
earnest  voice  as  he  advised  all  young  artists  to  see  statuary 
by  lamplight  in  order  to  find  the  ivory  shades  of  light  and 
dark  shadows  that  daytime  never  reveals,  not  to  put  more 
color  in  the  sunrise  than  did  Dame  Nature  nor  carmine  on 
young  lips  nor  fat  greens  in  the  summer  foliage. 

"  For  then,"  he  said,  smiling  wisely,  "  you  cease  to  be 
artists,  but  become  dreamy  and  conceited  liars !  Be  sin- 
cere ;  no  matter  what  you  may  believe,  be  sincere."  After 
which  he  sat  down  as  confused  as  a  schoolboy,  protesting 
against  the  applause,  admitting  in  an  undertone  to  Ernes- 
tine Christian  that  "  America  was  too  wonderful,  her 
food  too  sophisticated,  her  women  too  daring."  Then 
Lissa  tried  to  attack  him  from  the  other  side  with  some 
silly  question  which  caused  the  old  man  to  lapse  into  his 
Alsatian  jargon, 

"  Te,  Matame,  je  ne  sais  pas  — " 

Thurley  left  the  party  early;  Caleb  told  her  afterwards 
that  Bliss  was  disappointed  for  he  wanted  the  master  to 
hear  her  sing.  She  took  a  delight  in  having  cheated  him 
of  the  request.  She  went  to  her  bedroom  to  rummage 
among  her  belongings  until  she  found  an  overposed  stage 

327 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

picture  of  herself  as  Violette  in  "  Traviata  "  and  she  in- 
scribed it  to  Bliss  Hobart,  sealing  it  in  an  envelope  and 
marking  it,  "  For  the  album  —  could  not  find  the  other." 

She  said  her  dutiful  good  night  to  Miss  Clergy,  looking 
with  magnanimous  pity  at  the  frail  ghost  lady  who  patted 
her  white,  ringed  hand  and  said  as  she  had  done  so  many 
hundreds  of  times, 

"How  lovely  you  are,  Thurley  —  and  how  proud  I 
am !  You  have  never  given  me  any  anxiety  —  not  for  a 
moment.  .  .  .  What  a  girl  you  are  and  what  a  joy  it  has 
been!" 

To-night,  Thurley  lingered  a  moment  longer  than 
usual.  "  Do  you  think  I  shall  never  love?"  she  asked 
nervously. 

Miss  Clergy  sat  up  in  bed,  clutching  her  cashmere 
shawl  in  excitement.  "  Love  a  man?  "  she  asked  breath- 
lessly. "  Oh,  my  child,  it  would  only  bring  harm!  " 

Thurley  soothed  her  as  if  she  were  a  child.  "  I  won't 
break  my  promise  —  not  even  after  I  repay  you  —  and 
I'll  never  repay  you  if  I  keep  on  buying  pretties,  will  I? 
What  an  extravagant  goose  I'm  getting  to  be,  vying  with 
every  one  else  for  the  brightest  trifles!  "  She  was  talk- 
ing more  to  herself. 

Miss  Clergy  misunderstood  her  meaning.  "  Never  re- 
pay me,  Thurley!  What  do  I  want  with  money?  All  I 
have  will  be  yours,  now  do  you  understand?  All  I 
have !  "  she  whispered  hoarsely. 

"  Go  to  sleep,  there's  a  dear,"  Thurley  said  swiftly, 
"  and  when  you  watch  my  flirtations,  remember  they  are 
only  to  make  the  stage  loves  the  more  real."  Turning  off 
the  light  she  left  the  ghost  lady  to  her  haunted  memories. 

Half  the  night  Thurley  searched  among  her  posses- 
sions, finding  and  destroying  notes  from  admirers,  Dan's 
boyish,  imploring  letters,  her  own  childish  diary  she  had 

328 


kept  the  first  year  in  New  York,  Bliss  Hobart's  few  me- 
mentoes —  the  crayon  sketches  Collin  had  made  of  her 
abroad,  Ernestine's  letters.  She  reread  her  press  clip- 
ping book,  her  expense  accounts,  personal  memoranda; 
she  added  and  deducted  figures  as  if  she  were  a  scientific 
accountant.  Then  she  walked  into  her  clothes  room  and 
looked  at  all  the  lovely,  rainbow  things  of  becoming  rich- 
ness; she  opened  her  jewel  case  and  stared  at  the  glitter- 
ing bits  of  beauty  within.  It  was  as  though  she  were 
taking  a  complete  inventory  of  one  Thurley  Precore, 
prima  donna. 

She  undressed  herself  slowly,  never  taking  her  eyes 
from  her  image  in  the  glass,  plaiting  the  brown  hair  into 
two  braids,  each  as  thick  as  her  own  arm.  Then  she  rose 
and  quoted  quickly  the  master's  telling  command, 

"  Be  sincere  —  no  matter  what  you  may  believe,"  add- 
ing, "  so  that's  decided  —  no  matter  what  comes,"  star- 
tled at  the  insolent  assurance  of  her  eyes.  If  one  could 
have  seen  her  face  as  she  slept  one  would  have  noticed 
foremost  of  all  that  a  permanent  sneer  seemed  painted 
on  the  scarlet  lips. 


329 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Whatever  Lorraine  thought  concerning  Dan's  frequent 
absences  and  his  attitude  regarding  his  home  and  what 
happened  therein,  she  still  followed  the  path  of  the  Vic- 
torian era  and  kept  her  own  counsel.  Nor  did  any  one 
try  to  disturb  her  gentle  self  by  the  agony  of  doubts.  For 
one  reason  the  "  genteel  grafters,"  such  as  Cora,  Hazel, 
Josie  and  Owen  of  the  art  shoppe  fame,  came  to  Lor- 
raine's home  only  for  what  advantages  could  be  obtained. 
Why  then  disturb  her  who  gave  them  the  advantages? 
There  might  be  an  end  of  them  if  they  did.  To  be  sure 
they  gossiped  among  themselves  and  the  societies  and 
lodges  with  vivid  imagination  and  a  generous  manner  of 
embellishing  a  truly  innocent  but  unique  situation  —  a 
high-minded,  spirited  man  too  high  for  his  town  yet  too 
undisciplined  for  the  city  who  haunted  the  footsteps 
of  a  high-minded,  spirited  woman  who  had  become  big 
enough  in  abilities  for  the  entire  world  and  who  was 
dying  inwardly  of  ennui  and  heart-lonesomeness,  who  took 
this  mild  sort  of  affair  as  the  one  genuine  and  refreshing 
thing  in  her  hurried,  de  luxe  existence.  Neither  of  these 
young  people  realized  the  harm  it  incurred.  They 
cheated  themselves  into  believing  it  "  merely  palship  "  or 
"  an  expression  of  individuality  " —  a  very  nice  sort  of 
garden  and  not  wild  oats  affair! 

Sometimes  Thurley  met  Dan  with  a  zest  for  his  boyish 
mannerisms,  his  telling  of  the  rise  in  wool  goods,  what  a 
splendid  housewife  Lorraine  was  —  only  she  didn't 
understand  things  —  how  jealous  he  was  of  the  basso  who 

330 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

made  love  to  Thurley  on  the  opera  stage.  Sometimes  she 
looked  at  him  in  disdain,  the  strange  sneer  on  her  lips  as 
she  thought  of  what  a  dull  existence  was  Dan's,  what  a 
lark  it  was  to  see  him  strive  to  make  as  good  a  showing 
as  the  young  millionaire  who  was  hopelessly  infatuated 
with  this  Thurley  Precore,  boasting  at  his  club  that  she 
would  wear  his  necklace  or  his  flowers  before  the  season 
ended.  The  vampire  which  is  in  all  women  and  which  is 
not  a  sinister  quality  only  to  be  raved  about  as  "  a  rag 
and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair,"  had  for  the  time  being 
become  supreme  in  Thurley.  Dan  did  not  understand 
this  —  any  more  than  he  understood  why  he  was  un- 
happy when  he  was  near  Thurley  and  always  thinking 
about  Lorraine  and  why,  when  he  returned  home,  for- 
tified a  thousand  times  by  the  blessed  memories  of  Thur- 
ley's  beauty  and  the  stolen  moments  he  had  claimed,  he 
was  unhappier  still. 

Dan  would  return  to  his  immaculate,  prosaic  living- 
room  where  Lorraine  would  greet  him  and  inform  him 
all  in  the  same  breath  that  Lydia  Hoyt  was  engaged  and 
Lorraine  would  give  a  kitchen  shower  —  and  did  Dan 
notice  how  the  veranda  posts  sagged,  hadn't  he  better 
have  a  man  come  up  and  see  about  them?  —  oh,  yes, 
there  was  something  wrong  with  her  car,  well  —  she  had 
let  Owen  drive  it  because  he  had  deliveries  to  make  'way 
out  in  the  country  —  beefsteak  was  three  cents  higher  a 
pound  than  last  week  and  two  of  the  church  deacons  had 
resigned  because  they  couldn't  have  their  way  about  the 
music. 

After  which  Dan  would  slip  away  to  unpack  his  bag 
and  Lorraine  to  prepare  his  supper.  There  would  be  an 
abundant,  well  cooked  meal  on  the  prosaic  table  with  its 
nightmares  of  hand  painted  peppers  and  salts  and  cut 
glass  monstrosities,  the  water  pitcher  heavily  banded  with 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

gilt.  After  eating  his  fill,  Dan  would  depart  to  smoke  in 
peace  and  wonder  what  Lorraine  would  think  of  Thur- 
ley's  new  frocks  and  the  baskets  of  flowers  which  forever 
adorned  her  rooms,  of  the  bizarre  friends  and  their 
weird  ways  —  he  would  end,  however,  with  the  some- 
what hopeless  consolation  that  Lorraine  had  about  as 
much  imagination  or  capacity  for  artistic  enjoyment  as 
the  old  lady  who,  upon  seeing  mountains  for  the  first  time, 
merely  said  querulously, 

"  Dear  me,  if  any  one  ever  started  to  roll  — " 

For  Lorraine  would  have  probably  remarked,  after 
viewing  Thurley' s  apartment,  "  How  in  the  world  does 
she  ever  get  the  work  done !  "  letting  the  panorama  of 
joys  and  possibilities  sweep  on  uncomprehended. 

Therefore,  Dan  had  decided,  after  very  arduous  soph- 
istry, it  was  not  wrong  to  see  Thurley,  to  keep  her  in  his 
bewildered  heart  as  a  sort  of  lovely  idol,  something  set 
apart  from  the  Corners  and  his  house-and-garden  life  — 
something  as  different  as  the  scarlet  tanager  or  the  jew- 
elled dragon-fly  is  different  from  the  barn-swallow  or  the 
field-daisy!  Each  has  its  own  place. 

But  when  spring  began  to  hint  of  its  appearance  and 
Dan  had  been  in  New  York  over  Easter,  while  the  Cor- 
ners gossiped  about  his  absence,  although  Lorraine 
bravely  occupied  the  front  church  pew  and  wore  her  new 
silk  gown,  Dan  came  home  prepared  to  tell  Lorraine  that 
he  would  probably  be  away  very  often  during  the  summer, 

He  waited  until  the  work  was  "  done  up  "  and  Lor- 
raine brought  her  everlasting  handiwork  to  join  him  in  the 
den.  The  den  itself  was  sufficient  to  make  Dan's  nerves 
rebel  —  it  had  been  furnished  a  few  months  after  their 
marriage,  an  upstairs  bedroom  transformed  into  an  inqui- 
sition chamber,  as  he  told  Thurley. 

332 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Dens  in  such  hamlets  as  the  Corners  offer  no  ralson 
d'etre  save  when  a  cartoonist  gets  a  peek  at  them  or  the 
family  scapegoat  turns  up  unawares  and  is  made  to  occupy 
the  combination  divan  and  folding  lounge. 

Lorraine  fondly  pictured  the  den  as  an  ideal  place  for 
Dan  to  come  and  rest — "A  real  man's  room,"  she  ex- 
plained, "  where  they  smoke  and  play  cards  —  and  talk 
about  things!  "  It  was  adorned  by  Indian  heads,  an  oak 
table  with  a  prim  scarf  done  in  poppies  and  maidenhair 
fern,  a  lounge  with  pillows  made  from  cigar  ribbons  and 
college  pennants,  all  placed  in  undying  positions  of  recti- 
tude, glass  candlesticks  with  pink  shades,  a  shining  little 
ash  tray  and  match  box,  a  shelf  of  detective  stories  and 
old  magazines,  an  easy  chair  in  old  rose  velours,  two 
fragile  rocking  chairs,  some  grinning  lithographs  of  cow- 
boys, African  savages,  Christy  girls  and  bulldogs  placed 
at  exact  intervals  about  the  pink  flowered  walls  and 
dimity  curtains  criss-crossed  and  crisp  from  recent  wash- 
ing to  shut  out  the  light ! 

Seated  here,  this  April  evening,  a  hundred  thoughts 
clamoring  for  consideration  before  the  task  of  telling 
Lorraine  he  was  to  be  in  New  York  a  great  deal,  Dan 
pretended  to  play  solitaire  and  keep  up  a  desultory  con- 
versation about  the  way  a  neighbor  trained  a  pumpkin 
vine  over  his  woodshed  and  captured  the  village  improve- 
ment prize! 

The  absence  of  sympathy  between  them  seemed  a  re- 
lentless, chilly  wind  whipping  on  his  treasonous  speech, 
all  the  more  so  because  Dan  had  no  truly  logical  excuse. 
On  the  face  of  it,  what  more  could  a  man  demand? 
That  is,  if  one  were  magnanimous  about  the  Indian  heads 
and  sofa  pillows,  what  right  had  he,  a  small  town  shop- 
keeper, to  wail  his  heart  out  for  a  genius? 

333 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Oh,  'Raine,"  he  said  abruptly,  shuffling  the  cards  with 
a  fillip,  "  I  may  have  to  run  off  for  a  few  days  in  a  couple 
of  weeks  —  all  right?  " 

Lorraine  did  not  answer;  she  bent  her  head  over  her 
work. 

Dan  looked  at  her  sharply.  "  Isn't  it  all  right?  " 
His  voice  had  that  dangerous  gentleness  at  which  she 
always  winced. 

"Is  she  coming  back  this  summer?"  She  dropped 
the  sewing. 

Dan  put  aside  the  cards  and  came  beside  her.  Under 
the  flare  of  the  reading  light  her  face  seemed  thinner  and 
more  childish.  There  was  a  miraculous  subtlety  of  fea- 
tures, a  hidden  delicate  something  which  he  could  not 
analyze;  he  felt  boorish,  brutal,  as  absurd  as  when  he  was 
one  of  Thurley's  guests  at  a  party  and  every  one  really 
made  polite  game  of  him. 

He  kept  looking  at  Lorraine,  wondering  why  this 
change  had  come  about;  tired  purple  shadows  were  under 
her  eyes,  the  eyes  themselves  were  soft,  shining  things 
seeming  to  look  far  beyond  him. 

She  raised  her  hand,  crumpling  the  sheer,  white  slip  on 
which  she  was  sewing. 

"  You  mean  Thurley,"  he  stammered,  "  well  —  I  —  I 
don't  know,  dear,  you  see  the  Fincherie  is  Miss  Clergy's 
house  and  of  course  .  .  .  oh,  'Raine  .  .  .  now,  I  under- 
stand," his  eyes  staring  at  the  tiny,  gossamer  dress  I 


334 


CHAPTER  XXX 

With  an  armful  of  projects  under  way,  Hobart  had 
little  time  for  Thurley  during  the  winter.  He  met  her 
with  a  sort  of  "  You've  got  beyond  me  but  I  don't 
think  I'll  bother  to  chase  after  "  attitude,  praising  her 
when  she  did  well  or  keeping  his  silence  when  she  did 
some  showy,  foolish  thing,  food  for  press  agents.  He 
was  noncommittal  as  to  Dan  Birge's  visits  —  as  Miss 
Clergy  had  been,  since  the  latter  looked  upon  them  as  a 
particularly  choice  part  of  her  revenge,  for  here  was  a 
man  debarred  from  marrying  the  woman  he  loved,  yet 
following  her  hopelessly  whenever  she  permitted,  Pied 
Piper  fashion. 

When  Lissa  had  hinted  of  unsavory  things  to  him,  Ho- 
bart dismissed  the  matter  with  a  careless  speech  and  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  This  he  had  learned  to  do  long 
ago,  whenever  Lissa  came  prattling  of  some  imaginary 
scandal  which  pleased  her  tarnished  mind.  There  had 
been  the  time  she  tried  to  convince  Hobart  that  Collin 
really  did  not  paint  his  own  pictures,  but  hypnotized  Polly 
into  doing  it  arid  thus  kept  her  starving  in  a  garret,  hope- 
lessly in  love  with  Collin  and  Collin  playing  a  modern 
Svengali.  Lissa  had  endeavored  for  many  days  to  make 
Ernestine  believe  that  Caleb  was  the  storm  center  of  a 
liaison  with  a  Broadway  actress,  thus  ferreting  out  Ernes- 
tine's state  of  mind  concerning  Caleb  and  promptly  run- 
ning to  Caleb  to  tell  him,  ever  so  confidentially,  that  Er- 
nestine was  in  danger  of  drinking  herself  to  death,  poor 
woman, —  too  bad  she  loved  that  wretched  gypsy  violinist 

335 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

who  had  played  with  her  in  concert  work  —  could  nothing 
be  done  about  it?  The  world  had  soon  learned  not  to 
value  Lissa's  information,  paying  no  heed  to  her  hints  of 
Sam  Sparling's  dreadful  actions  or  that  Bliss  Hobart  did 
not  go  to  his  hermitage  in  the  Maine  woods  —  why,  there 
was  the  silliest  little  movie  actress  at  San  Diego  —  living 
in  a  perfect  castle,  too  — 

So  Hobart,  well  versed  in  tactics,  when  Lissa  ap- 
proached him  on  the  subject  of  Dan  and  Thurley,  man- 
aged to  switch  the  conversation  on  to  the  information  that 
Mark  had  danced  so  poorly  his  position  as  premier  was 
threatened  and  Lissa  had  better  adopt  the  diet  of  a  Bel- 
gian refugee  if  she  still  wished  to  look  her  best  in  tailored 
things !  Lissa,  ousted  for  the  time  being,  would  depart 
to  vent  her  wrath  on  the  shoulders  of  her  maid  or  Mark, 
who  was,  in  truth,  dancing  poorly  because  he  was  bored 
and  he  felt  dancing  was  not  a  man's  lifework  when  other 
things  kept  whispering  themselves  to  him  —  and,  hang  it 
all,  why  did  a  clean  cut,  wonder  girl  like  Thurley  let 
Lissa  pull  her  around  by  the  nose  anyway? 

In  a  spirit  of  half  earnest,  half  flippant  revenge  for 
Hobart's  neglect,  Thurley  sang  poorly  at  a  salon  concert 
at  which  Hobart  was  the  host.  She  so  resorted  to  Lissa's 
mannerisms  that  Caleb  took  notes  on  his  cuff  for  future 
use. 

Thurley  knew  the  concert  was  a  failure  since  she  was 
to  be  the  one  to  make  it  a  success.  She  refused  to  meet 
Hobart's  disappointed  gaze,  pretending  to  be  engrossed 
in  listening  to  a  Russian  agitator  telling  of  his  escape  over 
the  frontier. 

The  next  morning,  when  Thurley  was  debating 
whether  or  not  it  would  be  convenient  to  have  Dan  visit 
her  so  soon  again,  if  this  summer  was  to  be  spent  in 
shocking  the  natives  or,  as  Caleb  had  urged,  selecting  a 

336 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

site  for  a  permanent  country  home  and  seeing  it  well  on 
its  way  to  completion  by  fall,  she  lifted  the  telephone  re- 
ceiver to  answer  its  ring  and  heard  Bliss  Hobart's  voice 
—  his  teacher  voice  —  saying, 

"  Come  over  at  ten,  Thurley,  you've  a  lot  to  answer 
for." 

"Suppose  I  won't  come?"  she  retorted,  delighted  at 
the  prospect. 

But  he  had  disconnected.  She  deliberately  made  her- 
self late  by  overdressing.  A  mad  hatter's  model  of  a 
bonnet  in  blue  and  a  frock  of  rose  taffeta  with  a  coat  to 
match  furnished  her  with  the  proper  scenery,  she  admitted 
to  herself.  She  slipped  in  to  where  Miss  Clergy  indus- 
triously sat  knitting  army  socks  and  told  her  she  was  off 
for  a  coaching  lesson. 

"  A  coaching  or  a  dancing  lesson?  "  Miss  Clergy  asked 
mischievously. 

"  Both,"  Thurley  declared. 

She  found  Hobart  in  his  inner  study;  he  was  playing 
an  old  gavotte  and  greeting  her  with  a  curt  nod. 

"Well  —  is  a  luncheon  to  follow  the  lesson?  You 
must  have  thought  I'd  keep  you  all  morning.  I've  a 
pupil  at  eleven." 

Thurley  sat  on  one  of  the  little  peasant  chairs  and 
pouted  becomingly. 

"  I  dress  to  suit  my  mood.  Some  mornings  I  have  a 
desire  for  a  winding  sheet;  this  morning  I  wanted  rose 
taffeta  and  sapphire  velvet." 

Hobart  smiled.  "  Does  Miss  Clergy  ever  row  about 
your  adorers?  " 

Thurley  flushed,  saying  in  a  more  natural  voice,  "  Not 
exactly.  To  her  mind  it  is  the  more  enhancing  —  keep- 
ing mankind  at  bay.  And  it  settles  a  distressing  ques- 
tion for  me.  ...  I  daresay  I'd  make  a  cropper  of  mar- 

337 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

riage,  most  of  us  do.  This  way,  I  do  as  I  like,"  turning 
to  contemplate  the  empty  fireplace.  "  Must  I  be  coached 
this  morning?"  she  added.  "  My  throat  feels  scratchy 
and  I  have  a  benefit  concert  to-night." 

"It  wasn't  your  voice  —  but  yourself."  He  ended 
the  song  and,  rising,  took  an  opposite  chair  before  the 
fireplace.  "  I  am  going  away  earlier  than  usual  this  year 
because  of  some  work  in  England;  making  art  aid  the 
war.  If  I  don't  see  you  again,  let  me  give  you  a  little 
moral  coaching  which  is  all  you  need  to  set  you  right." 

She  would  have  interrupted,  but  he  held  up  a  protest- 
ing hand.  "  Age  before  camouflage,"  he  pleaded.  "  For 
a  long  time,  Thurley,  I  have  been  watching  you.  You 
have  come  now  to  where  you  feel  that  an  utter  disregard 
of  morals  is  really  preparation  and  a  necessary  frame  of 
mind  in  order  to  win  the  violet  crown  — " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  violet  crown?  "  She  did 
not  look  at  him. 

"  One  of  my  pet  names."  He  became  boyish  in  man- 
ner as  he  always  did  when  prevailed  upon  to  speak  of  the 
things  nearest  his  heart.  "  I've  a  lot  of  pet  names  — 
and  secrets  —  tucked  under  this  salt  and  pepper  hair  of 
mine.  A  long  time  ago,  I  sang  rather  well, —  nice  people 
have  said  I  sang  as  well  as  yourself,  with  as  much  ease 
and  as  little  training.  That  was  why  I  understood  you. 
My  mother  was  an  Italian  and  my  father  an  American, 
but  we  lived  in  Italy  to  please  my  mother  and,  after 
my  father  died,  she  felt  she  could  not  bear  to  leave  the 
blessed  memories,  for  they  had  been  ideally  happy."  He 
seemed  lost  in  a  reverie  from  which  he  roused  himself 
with  an  effort  to  continue : 

"  After  my  mother  was  gone  and  I  was  singing  as  well 
as  yourself  and  every  one  making  quite  a  fuss  over  me 
and  wanting  me  to  tour  America,"  he  seemed  to  dread 

338 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

even  the  saying  of  the  words,  "  I  loved  a  woman  who  was 
older  than  myself  and  who  sang,  too,  but  not  well  — 
more  like  Lissa.  I  loved  her  very  dearly  and,  of  course, 
I  believed  in  her.  But  she  was  an  art  intriguer  and  not 
a  worker  and  she  said  she  loved  me  merely  because  my 
golden  voice  meant  real  gold  —  for  her  to  spend.  .  .  . 
After  awhile, —  I  suppose  I  became  a  tedious,  dreamy  lad 
too  occupied  with  ideals, —  she  found  a  man  with  a  great 
deal  of  money  and  no  more  knowledge  of  music  or  art 
than  a  lapdog  has.  .  .  .  Without  telling  me,  she  went  up 
to  Paris  and  they  were  married  and  she  laughed  at  my 
moonings  and  made  fun  of  my  ideals.  .  .  .  For  a  long 
time  I  was  ill,  absurdly  so,  and  when  I  was  well,  my  voice 
was  gone,"  he  tried  to  speak  lightly,  "  but  in  its  stead  I 
had  a  vision.  .  .  .  Does  that  sound  too  superlative?  It 
does  to  myself,  for  it  is  one  of  the  things  words  spoil  the 
full  meaning  of;  it  would  take  music  to  express  it,  a  sonata 
inspired  by  the  three  oldest  sounds  in  the  world  — " 

"  What  are  they?  "  Thurley  asked,  feeling  the  simple 
girl  from  Birge's  Corners  again,  a  de  luxe  Topsy! 

"  The  wind,  the  death  cry  of  a  warrior  and  a  woman's 
sobs,"  he  answered  so  quickly  she  knew  it  had  been  clear 
to  him  for  a  long  time.  "  No  one  will  ever  write  the 
sonata,  so  words  must  do  their  best.  At  least,  I  choose 
to  whom  they  shall  be  said.  For  it  is  as  if  you  were 
looking  into  the  very  soul  of  me,  as  a  mother  does  when 
she  first  sees  her  newborn  child,  the  instant  when  the 
mysterious  bond  between  them  is  formed  for  all  time, 
despite  all  happenings." 

Thurley  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  blue  eyes 
serious.  "  I  shall  understand,"  she  promised. 

"  I  have  never  told  any  one  all  I  shall  tell  you  to-day, 
because  I  could  not  bear  to  have  them  jangle  and  dis- 
agree in  silly,  stupid  ways  —  like  an  auctioneer  trying  to 

339 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

prove  that  the  contents  of  a  shrine  were  not  of  intrinsic 
value  but  merely  worth  while  as  souvenirs!  Because  I 
think  it  is  worth  while,  I  shall  tell  you.  All  the  others," 
he  shook  his  head,  "were  not  worth  it!  Nor  could  I 
have  told  you  at  the  beginning  —  you  could  not  have 
understood.  Now,  you  are  at  the  crossroads,  flirting 
with  each  direction,  undecided  which  way  you  are  going 
to  travel." 

"  I  shall  understand  you,"  she  repeated.  To  herself 
she  added,  "  Because  I  love  you !  " 

"  It  seemed  to  me  as  I  pulled  myself  together  after 
the  fever  and  cast  about  for  another  way  of  being  useful, 
that  true  art  was  not  symbolized  by  a  laurel  wreath  but 
by  a  violet  crown  —  I  daresay  the  notion  started  from 
my  admiration  of  the  wonderful  enamelled  cups  used  in 
cathedrals  —  lavender  and  sapphire.  So  I  named  the 
symbol  for  genius,  the  crown  typifying  supremacy,  violet, 
as  the  ecclesiastics  interpret  it  —  humbleness,  for  those 
who  possess  true  genius  must  be  ever  mindful  of  the 
sparrow's  fall.  It  has  seemed  to  me  the  violet  crown 
could  be,  figuratively,  won  only  by  such  a  nation  as  Amer- 
ica, which,  like  the  Child  in  the  temple,  commanded  re- 
spect and  consideration  of  the  elders  —  or  the  Old  World 
with  its  shallow  reasonings  as  to  art.  For  the  Old  World 
has,  to  my  mind,  treated  art  and  its  artists  somewhat 
after  the  fashion  of  Barmecide's  Feast  —  the  Arabian 
Nights'  tale  of  the  prince  who  bade  the  beggar  sit  at  the 
snowy  table  a-glitter  with  golden  service  and,  lo,  when  the 
platters  were  lifted,  the  plates  were  devoid  of  food!  So 
it  is  with  true  art  —  we  have  had  wonderful  achieve- 
ments, but  we  have  not  yet  made  ourselves  realize  the 
moral  significance  and  responsibility  of  art  and  artists, 
that  has  been  as  devoid  of  justice  as  the  golden  plates  of 
Prince  Barmecide  were  of  food — •"  He  paused, 

340 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Thurley  was  eager  to  speak.  "  Why,  then,  can  I 
understand  your  vision?  "  hoping  for  but  one  reply. 

"  Because  you  are  one  of  the  vanguard!  Another  of 
my  secrets !  There  are  never  many  of  the  vanguard,  and 
we  are  not  always  rich  or  great  or  talented.  Sometimes 
the  vanguard  of  civilization  are  humble  and  their  earthly 
record  most  uninteresting.  But  have  you  never  thought 
to  yourself  there  were  just  a  few,  rare  souls  who  —  who 
understand?  Who  can  smile  at  the  trials  the  world  seeks 
to  escape  from  and  sometimes  sob  at  the  vapid  joys  for 
which  the  world  strives  so  unceasingly?  The  vanguard 
can  make  the  most  out  of  little  and  belittle  the  most. 
They  seem  to  glimpse  the  coming  trials  of  the  nation  and 
her  resultant  triumphs;  they  are  never  given  to  cowardice 
of  flesh  or  spirit.  As  a  general's  military  vanguard 
moves  further  along  the  battleline,  so  we,  the  altruistic 
vanguard,  must  be  ever  ahead  of  the  times  in  thought, 
deed  and  prophecy.  It  is  not  always  a  pleasant  role  — 
to  blaze  the  trail.  The  vanguard  are  usually  misjudged, 
ridiculed  and  never  idle  — " 

"  So  the  first  vanguard  was  the  group  at  Calvary  who 
gave  defiance  to  the  mob."  Thurley  forgot  the  personal 
issue  between  them. 

He  nodded,  well  pleased.  "  In  science,  theology, 
economics,  art,  so  on,  we  always  find  a  few  members  ally- 
ing themselves  distinctly  with  each  great  cause  and  these 
few  dare  to  see  and  to  say  wherein  lie  the  errors  of  the 
past  and  the  possibilities  of  the  future.  Let  you  and  me, 
Thurley,  as  artists  help  America  as  a  nation  to  the  win- 
ning of  the  violet  crown." 

"  This  war  — "  she  fregan. 

"  Ah,  not  this  physical  war,  for  it  will  be  over  within 
a  short  time  —  so  to  speak.  America  will  enter  and  soon 
surface  peace  will  result.  But  long,  long  afterwards  — 

341 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

when  art  assumes  fairly  normal  proportions  and  consid- 
eration and  the  world  lapses  back  into  the  old  ways  — 
what  then?  Some  one  has  said  the  French  have  taken 
this  war  as  an  immortal  martyrdom  and  the  British  as  a 
bully,  well  worth  while  game  —  then  let  our  nation  take 
it  as  the  chance  to  win  the  violet  crown  —  first  by  the 
necessary  sacrifice  and  change  in  extravagant,  thoughtless 
living  which  will  prepare  our  minds  to  be  ready  for  the 
great  moral  battle  long  after  the  fields  of  Flanders  are 
recreated  into  fragrant  orchards." 

'  Then  you  did  not  want  to  preach  to  me,"  Thurley 
sighed  with  relief. 

"  This  is  all  a  part  of  it,"  he  warned,  "  for  you  have 
strayed  far  from  the  vanguard.  First,  to  finish  about 
myself.  For  I  have  been  glad  the  world  lost  an  excel- 
lent tenor  because  he  might  have  been  a  foolish  one.  I 
am  better  placed  as  I  am;  but  you,  Thurley,  are  running 
amuck.  Why  this  shallow  flippancy?  This  false  basis 
of  theories,  mistaking  shadow  for  substance?  Because 
you  hear  such  and  such  a  great  diva  bore  a  child  for  a 
crown  prince  —  that  this  artist  acts  under  the  influence 
of  morphine  and  that  one  paints  only  when  addled  from 
absinthe  —  you  must  not  pursue  these  phantoms  of  self- 
indulgence  —  and  you  who  sit  there  looking  confused  yet 
combative,  you  are  at  this  very  moment  halfway  inviting 
an  intrigue  with  an  honest  country  lad  —  Dan  Birge  1 
Can  you  not  remember  that  scullery  maids  as  well  as 
prima  donnas  dabble  their  virtue  in  cheap  stains;  there  is 
nothing  distinctive  about  it?  " 

Instantly  at  war  with  herself,  yet  happy  because  Ho- 
bart  was  speaking  to  her,  Thurley,  of  her  personal  tan- 
gles, she  began  a  spirited  defence,  using  Lissa's  blase 
theories. 

He  waved  them  aside,  answering  in  a  brusque  manner, 

342 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

a  contrast  to  his  dreamy  fashion  of  a  moment  ago,  "  You 
say,  '  I  am  different  —  on  an  independent  train! '  Then 
so  are  we  all,  rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief. 

"  Why  applaud,  throw  gold,  even  title  a  man  or  a 
woman  who,  despite  remarkable  ability,  has  betrayed 
every  simple  tenet  of  faith  and  mocked  at  the  very  sub- 
ject matter  which  gives  them  their  laurel  wreath?  We 
need  a  new  standard  for  art,  Thurley. 

"  As  the  air  has  been  conquered  for  a  flight,  a 
dozen  things  of  science,  a  broader  version  of  theology, 
let  us  make  the  standards  of  personality  of  import- 
ance in  considering  genius.  Ultimately  we  should  not 
lose.  The  artists  themselves  would  be  the  spiritual 
gainers,  if  forced  to  live  up  to  the  ideals  they  so  con- 
scientiously and  glibly  prescribe  for  every  one  else.  You 
hear  of  a  tradesman  who  abuses  his  family  and  his  busi- 
ness invariably  falls  off  as  a  result.  Yet  we  encore  a  man 
who  has  cynically  betrayed  a  young  girl  and  laugh  indul- 
gently when  reading  of  his  drunken  escapades.  '  But 
what  a  Romeo  !  '  we  say.  '  We  must  excuse  him  —  an 
artist,  you  know.'  There  is  an  end  of  it.  Is  it  not  true 
that  in  politics  nothing  damns  a  candidate  more  than  a 
whisper  against  his  good  name  —  his  name,  mark  you, 
not  his  abilities?  In  religion,  what  ruins  a  clergyman 
more  than  the  rumor  of  the  little  choir  girl — ?  In 
everything  else  the  world  has  attempted  to  deal  out  jus- 
tice regarding  the  equation  of  personal  and  professional 
life,  but  at  the  mere  mention  of  talent,  genius  —  tempera- 
ment —  even  a  bobbed-haired  musical  comedy  actress  — 
the  public  sinks  giggling  like  a  schoolgirl  into  an  orches- 
tra chair  and  becomes  ineffectual,  blind,  duped  —  im- 
moral!" 

Thurley  made  no  comment,  but  she  rose  and  showed  her 
nervous  tension  by  walking  rapidly  up  and  down  the  floor. 

343 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

After  a  pause  Hobart  added,  "  If  we  are  to  make 
American  art  permanent,  we  must  make  American  artists 
hold  to  the  best  in  themselves.  That,  Thurley,  is  my 
vision!  That  is  what  you  must  do,  for  you  are  of  the 
vanguard  and  you  have  true  genius.  Of  course  there 
would  be  a  time  of  temporary  disillusionment  for  art, 
with  every  one  scrambling  about  and  crying,  '  Help-ho  — 
surely,  not  me!  '  After  the  readjustment,  when  the  craft 
of  artists  realize  that  the  public  demands  clean-breathed 
lives  of  them  and  the  surplus  of  amateurs  have  been 
beaten  back  into  the  ranks,  I  see  an  art  so  ennobling  and 
enduring  that  all  other  glories  pale  beside  it  —  an  art  of 
which  America  alone  is  capable  —  virile,  innocent  not 
ignorant,  mystical  yet  practical.  In  truth  America's  sixth 
race  can  be  the  inspiration  of  the  bleeding,  older  world. 
That,  Thurley,  by  degrees,  must  be  our  part  in  recon- 
struction —  the  winning  for  America  of  the  violet 


crown." 


Thurley  paused  in  her  walking  of  the  floor. 

"  But  when  one  is  so  young  and  —  when  — "  She 
faltered,  all  the  wild-rose  self  of  her  returning,  like  a 
child  reluctant  to  confess  its  misdoings. 

Hobart  took  her  hands  in  his.  "  The  personal  twist 
to  any  problem  is  for  the  person  to  solve ;  no  one  else  can 
estimate  it  as  well.  Only  to  you  have  I  told  my  vision, 
confided  my  hopes.  Do  not  disappoint  me,"  he  would 
have  added  more  but  the  rap  at  the  door  recalled  him  to 
the  eleven  o'clock  lesson. 

"  Au  revoir,"  he  said  gaily,  "  and  if  I  do  not  see  you 
until  fall—" 

"  You  must  see  me ;  you  cannot  leave  me  at  the  cross- 
roads." 

"  You  are  making  yourself  walk  backwards  to  them," 
he  contradicted. 

344 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  You  did  not  finish  about  yourself,"  she  refused  to  be 
conscious  of  his  appointment,  "  the  woman  you  —  loved 
—  that  part  of  the  story — " 

"  I  told  you  all  I  have  ever  allowed  myself  to  remem- 
ber," he  corrected,  the  inner  illumination  vanishing  and 
the  rather  cynical  man  of  the  world  in  elegant  morning 
dress  remaining. 


345 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

Thurley  went  directly  home  instead  of  keeping  a 
luncheon  engagement  with  Ernestine.  She  wanted  to 
spend  the  afternoon  in  remembering  all  he  had  said. 
The  greatness  of  his  vision  and  the  new  standard  for  art 
had  not  impressed  her  as  much  as  the  moment  when  he 
had  taken  her  hands  —  or  told  of  his  false  love.  Then 
Miss  Clergy's  promise  crossed  the  clearness  of  her  reflec- 
tion, blurring  it  badly;  Dan's  bucolic  letter  on  her  desk 
marred  her  thoughts  as  well  —  so  did  the  flowers  from 
Mark,  the  handsome  gift  book  from  some  one  else;  a 
myriad  of  incidents  and  engagements  came  to  spoil  the 
reverie.  As  sacred  to  her  as  the  vision  which  had  been 
shared  with  her,  Thurley  kept  telling  herself,  "  I  am  of 
the  vanguard  .  .  .  and  I  love  him  ...  no  other  man 
can  tempt  me  ...  I  love  him,  therefore  I  can  live  up  to 
his  vision  and  help  him  .  .  .  for  he  is  sadly  limited.  He 
merely  expresses  what  some  one  else  must  do.  ...  I  love 
him,"  and  when  the  charming  question  hinted  itself  to 
her, — "  Suppose  this  man  of  a  great  vision  and  grave 
purpose,  burned  clean  of  youthful  tragedy,  should  love 
you  —  what  then?  " — Thurley  admitted  that  vows  were 
brittle  things  and  that  if  the  circumstances  so  fell  out  she 
would  not  hesitate  to  prove  the  statement. 

The  next  morning  when  she  was  writing  Hobart  a  note 
trying  to  express  something  of  all  she  felt  towards  his 
vision  and  his  influence,  as  Dante  said  of  Virgil,  "  their 

346 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

guide,  their  master  and  their  friend,"  Lissa  dropped  in 
for  a  call. 

"  Bliss  sails  at  noon  for  England,"  she  informed  Thur- 
ley.  "  Isn't  it  wonderful  to  be  all  important,  war  or  no 
war?  They  want  him  to  patch  them  all  up  with  patriotic 
art  —  I  suppose  he'll  come  back  an  earl  in  spite  of  him- 
self—" 

Whereat  Thurley  felt  as  heartbroken  as  a  girl  deserted 
by  her  bona  fide  lover,  as  she  tried  to  chat  pleasantly  and 
not  betray  her  disappointment.  She  entered  again  the 
squirrel  cage  of  doubts  and  subterfuges  until  she  felt  as 
absurd  at  having  seriously  considered  being  one  of  the 
vanguard  as  one  who  admits  having  won  a  husband 
through  a  matrimonial  agency. 

Lissa's  way  was  quite  comfortable  —  uneasy  lies  a 
head  which  does  not  wear  a  becoming  hat  was  the  great- 
est depth  of  her  philosophy! 

So  Thurley  dragged  the  summer  through,  wondering 
why  Dan  had  ceased  to  write  to  her,  imploring  her  to 
return  to  the  Corners  or  permit  him  to  visit  her  in  New 
York.  In  the  true  sense  Thurley  was  glad  Dan  had  not 
written,  although  no  woman  can  ever  quite  forgive  a  man 
whose  interest  in  her  ceases.  She  was  piqued,  on  her 
mettle  to  sing  her  best  and  disprove  Hobart's  flowery 
vision,  as  she  had  told  herself  it  was,  to  sing  so  well  and 
live  so  flippantly  that  she  could  say  to  him  with  truth, 
when  he  returned,  "  Your  vision  is  impractical,"  and 
when  a  certain  multi-millionaire,  a  chewing-gum  king 
he  was,  to  make  it  the  more  humorous,  made  love 
to  Thurley  and  plied  her  with  attentions,  Thurley  did 
not  hesitate  to  flirt  with  him  publicly  until  Sunday 
newspapers,  despite  the  war,  devoted  a  page  of  pic- 
tures and  lurid  writing  with  repeated  exclamations 
about  "  the  young  diva  whose  vow  never  to  marry 

347 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

has  not  kept  her  from  being  soul  mate  to  the  chewing-gum 
king!" 

The  chewing-gum  king  was  boresome  after  a  little; 
horse-racing,  good  wine,  pretty  women  without  brains, 
clothes  trees  upon  which  to  display  his  wealth,  were  the 
extent  of  his  possibilities.  And  Thurley,  without  hesita- 
tion, proceeded  to  pass  him  over  to  willing  rivals  who 
had  watched  the  apparent  progress  of  the  affair  with 
scantily  concealed  envy. 

Miss  Clergy  had  not  gone  to  the  mountains  but  stayed 
with  Thurley,  who  flitted  restlessly  from  one  watering 
spot  to  another,  appearing  at  the  private  affairs  for  war 
charities,  now  and  then  running  into  Caleb  or  Ernestine 
or  Collin  who,  likewise,  seemed  to  be  having  a  table 
d'hote  vacation,  a  little  of  everything  and  none  of  it 
satisfying. 

Hortense  Quinby,  again  in  charge  of  Thurley's  apart- 
ment, and  Polly  Harris  proved  the  only  exciting  events 
in  the  long  holiday.  Without  warning  Hortense  left 
Thurley  as  suddenly  as  she  had  attached  herself  to  the 
retinue,  a  desertion  which  brought  Thurley  into  town  to 
see  why  this  sudden  resignation  of  a  now  valued  member 
of  her  staff. 

She  found  Hortense  in  a  khaki  uniform  with  innumer- 
able brass  buttons  and  a  mock  knapsack  across  her  chest, 
her  restless  eyes  sparkling  with  a  new  eagerness  as  when 
she  had  pleaded  to  become  necessary  to  some  one  who 
was  already  famous.  Hortense  was  to  do  land  duty  in 
behalf  of  the  French  war  orphans,  only,  as  she  told  Thur- 
ley forcibly,  until  America  entered  the  war  and  overseas 
duty  confronted  her.  At  last  she  could  prove  her  worth 
to  the  world !  The  land  duty  in  behalf  of  the  orphans, 
as  nearly  as  Thurley  could  make  out,  was  to  appear  pub- 
licly as  often  as  possible  to  solicit  subscriptions  from  all 

348 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

who  passed  by, —  a  more  exciting  form  of  the  occupations 
of  old  men  to  be  seen  on  side  streets,  a  restaurant 
sign  harnessed  on  both  chest  and  back,  announcing  the 
wonders  of  pot  roast  and  noodles  for  fifty  cents  —  pie 
extra. 

"  But  just  when  you've  learned  to  be  of  such  use  to 
me,"  Thurley  urged,  "  the  way  you  keep  everything  go- 
ing —  why,  Hortense,  weren't  you  happy?  " 

At  which  Thurley  was  treated  to  the  initial  outburst 
of  Hortense's  emotional  spree. 

Briefly,  it  was  this:  The  chance  for  the  great  adven- 
ture was  presenting  itself  to  women  whose  lives  had  had 
neither  adventure  nor  romance.  And  if  romance  and  ad- 
venture had  not  been  theirs,  it  was  their  duty  as  indi- 
vidual souls  to  create  it,  woo  it,  pursue  it,  anything  to 
obtain  some  smart  and  stinging  knowledge  of  the  world 
at  large.  It  was  better  to  wear  out  than  to  rust  out,  this 
strange,  middle-aged  rebel  said,  her  long,  thin  hands  fon- 
dling the  buttons  of  her  toy  uniform. 

"  Ah,  but  I  thought  it  was  for  the  orphans,"  suggested 
Thurley,  who  had,  unostentatiously,  paid  for  the  support 
of  half  a  dozen  of  them. 

Well,  it  was  the  orphans,  true  enough  —  but  the  or- 
phans were  a  means  to  an  end  —  there,  that  was  the  situ- 
ation! Being  third  rail  to  fame  was  not  satisfactory,  it 
was  like  leading  a  hungry  man  outside  a  restaurant  win- 
dow wherein  are  displayed  three-inch  steaks  flanked  by 
asparagus  and  keeping  him  there,  close  to  the  food  it  is 
true,  but  separated  by  a  window  glass  which,  if  he  breaks 
it,  means  jail! 

Being  associated  with  genius  had  merely  whetted  her 
appetite  for  expression,  nor  was  she  alone,  she  added,  all 
over  America  were  women  realizing  that  the  opportunity 
for  self-expression,  freedom  of  speech  and  action  was 

349 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

theirs;  they  would  proceed  on  the  quest  for  adventure, 
something  to  be  an  everlasting  antidote  against  the  drab 
pattern  of  their  ladylike  lives !  Few  suspected  this  rebel 
germ  was  quickening  in  the  flat,  thin  chests  of  conscien- 
tious, rubber  heeled  librarians,  middle  aged,  a  trifle  un- 
wholesome spinsters  like  Hortense  —  but  it  was  true. 
Whether  or  not  it  was  milk  for  French  orphans,  which 
was  a  worthy  cause  playing  into  the  hands  of  the  restless 
searchers,  a  cause  was  being  given  them  and  take  it  they 
would ! 

So  Hortense,  for  the  time  being,  passed  from  Thur- 
ley's  life  with  Thurley  pondering  after  she  had  stamped 
from  the  room  with  a  ringing,  military  tread  and  given 
Thurley  her  headquarters  address,  adding  that  she  would 
see  trench  life  or  commit  suicide! 

When  Thurley  sought  out  Polly  to  beseech  her  to  come 
and  look  after  things,  particularly  now  that  Thurley  was 
to  begin  coaching  for  her  new  title  role  in  Liszt's  "  Saint 
Elizabeth,"  she  found  Polly  giving  a  party  royal  in  her 
attic,  celebrating  being  left  a  small  legacy  by  a  maiden 
aunt.  The  aunt  had  also  left  Polly  a  letter  expressing 
her  opinion  that  her  niece  had  been  nothing  if  not  a  fool 
to  have  left  a  good  home  with  a  decent  furnace  for  a  tene- 
ment and  a  daily  diet  of  macaroni. 

As  Thurley  looked  at  the  hilarious  feast,  well  under 
way,  she  laughed  in  spite  of  herself  and  wondered  whether 
or  not  the  aunt's  shade  was  walking  restlessly !  For 
Polly  in  a  new  frock  as  brown  as  Spanish  fish  nets  on  the 
Santander  sands,  was  pouring  out  claret  with  a  lavish 
hand  and  pressing  alligator  pear  salad  and  jellied  chicken 
on  her  nearest  guest,  the  table  abundantly  strewn  with 
every  eatable  known  to  luxury. 

"  Polly's  pretending  her  opera  has  been  a  success,  I  do 
believe,"  a  more  practical  guest  whispered  to  Thurley. 

350 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  She's  determined  to  burn  her  money  up  as  fast  as  she 
can;  she's  loaned  us  all  ten  dollars  — " 

Thurley  found  Polly  quite  determined  to  pay  no  heed 
to  her  aunt's  letter. 

"  Why  should  I  remember  I  come  of  gentle  people?  " 
she  asked,  her  brown  eyes  sparkling  naughtily.  "  I'd 
rather  have  one  or  two  glorious  parties,  treat  myself  to 
all  the  music  I  want  for  a  season  than  to  go  snailing  back 
to  Painted  Post  and  live  in  a  cottage  completely  sur- 
rounded by  neighbors.  I've  run  wild  too  long,  Thurley 
dear  —  don't  look  so  disappointed.  Why,  you  beautiful, 
lovely  thing,  what  right  have  you  to  show  me  the  error 
of  my  ways,  you  with  a  king's  ransom  on  your  fingers  this 
minute?  Yet,  Thurley,  when  I  look  at  you  and  summon 
my  Scotch  second  sight  to  lend  me  wisdom,  you  seem  fey 
to  me,  fated  as  the  Scotch  know  the  world.  Shall  I  tell 
you  your  possibilities?  " 

"  It's  the  claret,"  Thurley  insisted.  She  did  not  want 
to  talk  about  herself  because  she  did  not  seem  a  strug- 
gling, interesting  human  being  like  the  rest. 

"  No,  it's  not  claret  but  second  sight.  Bliss  knows  I 
have  second  sight;  he's  often  asked  me  for  opinions  — 
for  everything  but  my  operas,"  she  added  a  trifle  bitterly. 
"  Now  you  do  seem  fey,  as  if  you  ought  to  become  a  rosy- 
cheeked  matron,  the  sort  that  has  a  big,  brick  house  just 
packed  with  young  people  who  all  confide  in  you,  and  a 
nice,  gentle  sort  of  relatives,  linen  closets  with  lavender 
bags  between  the  snowy  piles,  jam  closets,  rooms  with  old, 
soft  rugs  and  mellowed  furniture,  all  kinds  of  books  and 
pictures  and  nothing  so  wonderful  that  art  dealers  would 
ever  employ  burglars  to  borrow.  Just  the  kind  of  things 
that  years  afterwards  would  cause  your  children  to  say, 
'  Oh,  that  was  mother's  —  I  shall  never  give  it  up,'  or 
'  Here  is  her  shawl.  How  she  laughed  at  herself  for 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

huddling  so  eternally  in  it!  Let's  keep  it  in  the  cedar 
chest  she  had  as  a  bride,  she'd  like  to  have  it  so,  I'm  cer- 
tain !  '  You  understand,  Thurley  dear,  the  lovely  com- 
mon things  inspired  by  some  one  not  common!  There, 
that's  quite  as  smart  as  Caleb  himself  could  have  said  it." 

Forgetting  her  errand  and  Hortense,  Thurley  repeated, 
"  It's  the  claret,  Polly  —  and  you're  quite  mad.  .  .  ." 

She  rushed  home  to  practise  scales  diligently,  remem- 
bering with  every  thump  of  the  keys  that  she  was  never  to 
marry  —  tum-tum-tum,  and  that  Bliss  Hobart  was  a  vi- 
sionary dreamer  —  turn-turn,  art  never  could  be  placed  on 
a  moral,  idealistic  basis,  never  —  ti-ti,  she  had  no  idea  of 
trying  to  be  one  of  the  vanguard  because  how  useless  it 
would  be  when  one  was  tied  to  a  ghost  lady  —  tum-tum- 
tit  that  wretched  bohemian  of  a  Polly  had  unsettled  her  — 
ti-ti-ti,  anyway,  Bliss  had  said  he  would  not  consider  a 
vow  to  a  ghost  lady  as  binding  —  tra-la-la,  yet  after  con- 
fiding his  great  secret,  why  did  he  rush  off  without  a 
good-by,  expecting  her  to  do  what?  Why  didn't  he  go 
scold  Ernestine  or  Caleb  or  Collin,  some  one  besides  her- 
self —  ta-ta-tum,  she  finished  with  a  final  thump  and  a 
superbly  clear  note  which  brought  Miss  Clergy  to  the 
door  to  applaud. 

For  the  first  time  Thurley  turned  from  her  in  recoil. 
She  seemed  a  jailer  preventing  Polly's  vision  from  coming 
true  —  and  what  a  lovely  vision  it  had  been !  .  .  . 

"  Thurley,  are  you  ill?  "  Miss  Clergy  was  asking. 

"  I'm  tired  of  everything,"  she  answered,  without  con- 
trolling her  temper,  "  of  singing  and  New  York  and  my- 
self—  and  you,"  like  a  walli-walli  windstorm  she  swept 
out  of  the  room,  remaining  alone  until  she  could  laugh  off 
her  outburst  by  a  light,  humorous  explanation  of  a  tight 
slipper  or  the  alarming  story  told  by  the  weekly  weight  on 
undeniably  uniform  scales ! 

352 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

When  Hobart  did  return,  he  was  a  tired  and  not  easily 
enlivened  man  whose  summer  had  been  spent  overseas 
planning  things  calculated  to  counteract  the  effects  of 
"  military  poison  ivy,"  so  he  said  enigmatically.  He  met 
Thurley  with  seemingly  weary  interest  and  a  disapprov- 
ing shake  of  the  head  when  she  tried  again  to  convince 
him  that  her  way  and  Lissa's  way  was  the  best  —  as  well 
as  the  easiest  —  and  the  chewing-gum  king  only  one  of  a 
handful  of  "  pet  robins!  " 

Then  he  looked  at  her  in  her  sophisticated  maze  of 
gold  cloth  and  gave  a  boyish  laugh.  "  If  you  told  me 
you  were  totally  depraved,  I  should  only  laugh,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  trying  to  fool  yourself  into  thinking  yourself 
a  first  water  adventuress,  so  how  can  you  expect  to  fool 
me?  Come,  come,  what  terrific  things  have  you  allowed 
to  happen  to  your  voice !  We  shall  have  to  send  you  to 
the  nursery  to  begin  again!  So  Lissa  coached  you!  I 
knew  the  voice  assassin's  marks  of  violence." 

He  busied  himself  with  getting  Thurley's  voice  in 
shape  for  her  opening  night.  They  did  not  talk  again 
of  the  vision  or  Thurley's  snap  judgment  regarding  life. 
Once  Thurley  ventured  to  say  he  looked  tired  and  he  an- 
swered that  when  a  man  is  used  to  really  '  living '  for 
three  months  of  the  year,  to  be  shunted  into  another 
channel  tells  on  his  disposition,  but  he  would  weather  it 
all  right  and  he  was  very  glad  to  have  been  of  service. 

"  I  think  one  of  the  hardest  things  in  the  world,"  he 
added,  "  is  to  be  the  man  highest  up !  To  have  no  one  to 
whom  you  can  go  and  dump  your  budget  of  woes  and 
worries.  Sometimes  I  long  for  a  limited,  brainless  task, 
devoid  of  responsibility,  sure  of  an  uninterrupted  lunch 
hour  and  a  sick  benefit." 

Wondering  over  his  words,  Thurley  reached  her  apart- 
ment to  find  a  letter  from  Dan,  hesitating  before  she 

353 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

i 

opened  it  to  wonder  what  had  made  him  break  the  long 
and  unexplained  silence.  Then  she  found  her  answer. 

Dan  and  Lorraine  had  a  son !  Dan  had  written  Thur- 
ley  to  tell  her  he  loved  his  wife  as  he  had  never  loved 
any  one  before  —  not  even  Thurley.  He  had  confessed 
to  Lorraine  his  unloyal,  wayward  impulses  and  she  had 
forgiven  him.  Their  joy  over  Boy  was  so  great  that  he 
wanted  Thurley  to  be  friends  "  with  the  family."  He 
ended  almost  naively,  he  hoped  that  she  would  understand 
and  be  happy  for  them  all ! 

So  a  new,  engulfing  envy,  seconded  by  Polly's  little 
prophecy,  beset  her  and  during  the  winter  and  spring 
there  was  but  one  outcome,  Thurley  worked  as  she  had 
never  worked  before,  deaf  to  pleas  about  her  health, 
bitter  towards  her  admirers,  aloof  from  Hobart  and  the 
others  of  the  family,  working  without  pausing,  as  if  to 
drown  the  very  whisper  of  the  things  nearest  her  heart. 

With  the  declaration  of  war  came  a  multitude  of  sur- 
prises and  readjustments  regarding  the  family.  To 
Thurley's  surprise  her  own  interest  was  poised,  critical  as 
if  the  war  were  past  history  and  not  in  the  making.  Miss 
Clergy  was  "  not  interested,"  the  Civil  War  had  written 
itself  for  all  time  on  her  ghost  heart.  Mark  was  not 
going,  he  declared;  Collin  took  the  role  of  a  misguided 
pacifist;  Caleb  plunged  headlong  into  a  war  novel,  "  The 
Patriotic  Burglar,"  upon  which  he  was  to  realize  a  for- 
tune and  retrieve  some  very  asinine  losses  on  the  stock 
exchange.  "  The  Patriotic  Burglar  "  was  to  be  called 
upon  to  pay  his  income  tax,  and  how  explain  the  income  of 
a  hundred  thousand  a  year,  partly  obtained  by  the  theft 
of  Clementine  Van  Schaick's  pearl  necklace  !  Now  Clem- 
entine was  a  little  volunteer  worker  at  the  income  tax 
office  —  enter  High  Ike,  the  patriotic  burglar,  they  meet 
—  and  here  romance  fairly  skidded  under  the  speed  of 

354 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Caleb's  typewriter.  No  soldier  was  to  be  without  a  copy, 
commissioned  officers  would  be  expected  to  carry  five  at 
least,  and  that  was  as  far  as  the  war  affected  him! 

Ernestine  took  the  pessimistic  view  one  would  have 
expected  of  her.  The  country  was  going  to  the  dogs, 
she  declared,  really  mistaking  her  own  intensive  selfish- 
ness for  the  failure  of  the  country. 

Hobart,  who  had  already  been  fighting  "  art  battles  " 
abroad,  had  little  time  in  which  to  express  opinions  and 
Thurley,  having  word  from  Hortense  Quinby  that  she  ex- 
pected to  sail  for  overseas  shortly,  began  to  reflect  on  the 
social  readjustment  which  would  result  from  the  needed 
advertising  of  charities,  loans,  what  not,  since  the  only 
logical  advertisers  and  workers  would  be  the  hitherto 
domestic  women  who  would  now  step  beyond  the  firesides 
and  lift  up  their  voices. 

Thurley  came  to  think  more  concerning  Hobart's  vi- 
sion, the  final  victory  for  America  in  establishing  a  new 
morale  for  permanent  art  than  she  did  of  the  need  for 
guns  and  men,  although  she  generously  wrote  checks  and 
sang  gratis.  As  for  Lissa,  she  believed  in  having  things 
to  do  credit  to  her  patriotism  a;^d  her  complexion  simul- 
taneously. A  toque  of  blue  poppies,  a  red  tulle  veil  worn 
a  la  odalisque  and  a  besashed  and  bepleated  bit  of  white 
scenery  for  a  frock,  the  American  version  of  Nanette  and 
Rintintin,  faithful  mascots  who  saved  Paris  from  the 
Hun,  worn  on  a  silver  cord,  these  completed  her  opinion 
of  the  war  and  in  this  outfit,  to  Thurley's  surprise  and 
amusement,  she  appeared  one  warm  May  day  to  say  lan- 
guidly, 

"  Being  meatless  day,  I've  taken  the  rat  from  the  cat 
and  am  here  for  a  cocktail.  There's  a  dear !  Oh,  hum, 
all  my  pupils  are  rushing  off  to  be  motor  corps  girls  or 
kitchen  drudges  or  something  like  that.  When  I  have  to 

355 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

appear  enthusiastic  and  call  them  all  little  Joans  of  Arc, 
I  feel  like  saying,  '  How  can  I  conserve  a  cup  of  mush 
spilled  on  the  kitchen  oil  cloth?  '  and  let  them  go  forth 
properly  shocked  to  the  last  bit  of  braided  uniform! 
What  does  Bliss  say  about  the  opera?  I  should  think 
with  all  those  horrid  German  singers  sent  packing  there 
would  be  a  big  opportunity  for  us  home-growns.  Bliss 
has  always  been  obstinate  about  my  appearing.  I'm  as 
sure  of  success  as  you  are." 

Before  she  left,  Thurley  understood  the  part  Lissa 
meant  to  take  in  the  war  —  to  go  overseas  apparently  to 
sing  for  the  boys  and  in  reality  discover  and  capture  a 
widower  duke  for  her  second  husband. 

"  Why  not?  "  she  asked.  "  I'm  sure  women  have  the 
right  to  seek  their  fortune?  " 

"  Not  at  such  a  time.  They  should  be  sure  they  are 
needed  before  they  go  across  to  eat  up  sugar  and  beef 
and  wheat  —  even  to  take  up  space.  There  should  be 
an  examining  bureau  where  every  one  could  be  proved  a 
hundred  per  cent  needed." 

"  Ridiculous !  Think  of  the  chance  to  know  titled 
women.  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  I  went  to  London  after 
the  war  —  a  few  titled  patronesses  and  one  is  established! 
Of  course  you  are  bound  to  meet  them  over  there,  when 
they  are  all  scrubbing  floors  and  cooking.  It's  so  easy 
to  become  socially  elevated  these  days!  Look  at  the 
people  right  in  America  who  have  slaved  at  the  Red 
Cross  rooms  to  become  socially  exposed!  Oh,  I  know 
the  majority  are  self-sacrificing,  but  the  other  side  is 
worth  a  place  in  history,  too." 

After  she  left  and  Thurley  opened  the  window  to 
banish  Lissa's  heavy  and  synthetic  perfume,  she  thought 
of  her  cold-blooded  determination  to  find  a  duke,  a  dis- 
abled duke  would  do  if  his  title  was  sound,  and  marry 

356 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

him  or  become  friendly  with  blue-blooded  women  of  Eng- 
land who  welcomed  all  who  came  to  serve ! 

To  condemn  a  class  is  not  only  useless  but  ethically  a 
grave  error.  No  one  has  ever  given  it  credence  save 
fanatics  or  disgruntled,  long-haired  socialists.  But  to 
argue  both  sides  of  the  question,  giving  each  fair  represen- 
tation and  admit  the  errors  and  the  virtues  of  both  —  that 
is  common  sense. 

So  Thurley  sat  this  May  afternoon  while  the  city 
throbbed  with  its  new  turmoil,  thinking  of  many  things, 
all  of  which  related  to  Hobart's  prophecy  —  that  Amer- 
ica must  win  the  violet  crown,  definite  recognition  by  the 
Old  World  that  America  had  established  new  standards 
for  art,  independent  of  the  frayed  and  tarnished  rules 
which  had,  in  a  sense,  caused  present  bloodshed.  As  a 
nation's  art  progresses,  the  nation's  virility  weakens, 
so  history  has  proved,  Thurley  reasoned.  When  art 
reached  a  state  of  so-called  perfection,  commercial,  physi- 
cal and  religious  supremacy  of  the  nation  dimmed  —  be- 
cause the  foundation  for  that  art  was  not  made  of  com- 
mon sense  rules  but  fantastic  and  self-indulgent  excep- 
tions. Let  the  foundation  for  art  be  moral  even  if  lim- 
ited to  begin  with,  inspired  by  self-sacrifice  and  with  sin- 
cerity its  determining  motif  and  that  nation  can  advance 
in  art  without  fear  of  decadence.  She  went  to  the  win- 
dow to  close  it,  looking  down  at  the  busy,  broad  street 
where  strange  posters  met  her  gaze,  women  in  uniforms, 
women  stopping  pedestrians  to  beg  for  the  cause,  women 
making  speeches,  boys  screaming  out  something  and  wav- 
ing banners,  while  echoes  of  a  popular  military  song 
floated  up  to  her, —  all  gay  anesthesia  for  the  horror  of 
the  war.  The  great  and  needed  romance  of  war  had 
taken  its  clutch  on  America ;  reality  was  left  unhampered 
for  the  battlefield.  That  was  the  great  division  of  the 

357 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

forces.  From  now  on  anything  tinged  with  military 
trimmings  would  be  accepted.  Fortunes  won  by  a  trifling 
penwiper  made  of  red,  white  and  blue  cheesecloth !  An 
actress  however  infamous  of  character  and  threadbare  as 
to  ability  would  be  lauded  and  her  salary  tripled  when 
she  screeched  camp  ditties  or  waved  a  flag!  Pictures 
with  the  flag  would  sell,  pictures  with  soul  and  peaceful 
backgrounds  would  be  shoved  aside,  books  such  as  Caleb's 
would  flood  the  market,  military  diaries  would  come  in 
droves  to  the  editors'  payroll.  For  the  time  being  art 
would  be  a  necessary  factor  in  arousing  emotions  and  sus- 
taining interest.  It  always  had  been  so,  it  always  must 
be  so  at  such  a  crisis. 

It  occurred  to  her  that  if  Hobart's  vision  could  have 
been  realized  before  this  crisis  what  a  mightier,  more 
direct  influence  true  art  would  have  in  rousing  the  com- 
moner. For  it  would  be  an  art  of  spiritual  sincerity  and 
no  one  would  be  forced  to  discriminate  among  a  myriad 
of  near-art  wares  and  mercenary  efforts  in  patriotic 
guise.  The  peasant  whose  taste  for  opera  and  pictures 
is  unsullied  until  he  mingles  with  the  conglomeration 
which  this  over-generous  nation  offers  is  to  be  preferred ! 

And  afterwards,  Thurley  thought, —  strangely  enough, 
when  peace  had  come  —  would  the  vanguard  of  art 
be  brave  enough  to  banish  forever  the  surplus  wares, 
false  standards  and  begin  anew?  —  for  these  swash- 
buckling profiteers  would  be  loath  to  cry  quits, 


358 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

An  hour  later  Thurley  discovered  herself  in  bed,  a 
doctor  watching  her  and  Miss  Clergy  in  the  doorway,  her 
face  gray  with  apprehension.  A  nurse  whispered  she  had 
fainted  while  standing  at  the  window;  that  there  was  no 
need  for  alarm.  The  doctor  added  that  she  had  brain 
fag,  nothing  serious  if  she  would  go  away  to  some  place 
where  she  could  be  pulled  together.  After  more  suave 
remarks  and  those  little  sugar-coated  pellets  left  behind, 
he  departed  and  Thurley  sent  the  nurse  and  Miss  Clergy 
away,  tossing  restlessly  and  wondering  if  she  could  make 
them  understand  that  she  would  not  go  to  a  milk-fed 
sanitarium  where  nurses  sneaked  about  in  rubber-heeled 
shoes  and  one  had  to  exclaim  over  sunsets  with  the  other 
patients,  to  say  nothing  of  bulletlike  little  biscuits  and 
health  foods  and  the  talk  on  "  Iceland  Moss  "  given  by  a 
convalescent  missionary! 

When  a  wild  rose  tries  to  become  a  hot-house  variety 
there  is  certain,  some  time  during  the  transition,  to  be  a 
bad  scratching  of  thorns  which  was  all  that  ailed  Thur- 
ley. 

In  the  morning  Bliss  Hobart  dropped  in  to  see  her  and 
Thurley  brightened  so  visibly  that  the  nurse  left  the 
room,  grinning  superciliously. 

"  Bother  opera  things,"  Bliss  said.  "  I'm  really  glad 
you  fainted  yesterday;  you  fainted  enough  for  me,  too, 
didn't  you?  I  was  just  considering  getting  up  on  top  of 
Grant's  Tomb  and  dancing  a  Highland  fling  —  masculine 
form  of  nerve  fag.  ...  I  say,  Thurley,  do  you  know 
you're  coming  with  me  to  my  hermitage?  I'm  leaving 

359 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

to-night  and  we're  to  bully  Miss  Clergy  into  being  chape- 
rone."  Here  they  both  laughed  at  each  other  like  chil- 
dren and  the  pellets  almost  lost  the  sugar  coating  in 
wrath  at  the  small  part  they  played  in  curing  this  wild 
rose  person!  "Oh,  yes,  you  are  coming.  I  was  just 
leaving  for  Blessed  Memory  myself  when  they  told  me 
you  were  ill.  A  month  there  will  set  you  right." 
'  You  mean  the  place  you  disappear  to  — " 

"  And  Lissa  hints  of  a  harem,  a  dope  den,  a  gambling 
lair  and  what  not?  Yes,  ma'am,  Blessed  Memory  is  its 
name.  You'll  be  there  this  time  to-morrow.  Remem- 
ber, rouge  boxes  and  high  heels  not  admitted." 

He  left  her  to  thank  her  kind  fortune  she  had  had 
sense  enough  to  faint  and  bruise  herself  slightly.  Why, 
oh,  why,  had  she  never  thought  of  doing  so  beforehand? 
She  was  humming  as  she  waited  for  her  maid  to  come  and 
get  a  steamer  trunk.  .  .  .  Miss  Clergy  watched  from  the 
corner  of  the  doorway  unawares.  But  what  she  thought 
she  kept  to  herself. 

Blessed  Memory,  buried  in  the  wildest  part  of  Maine, 
with  the  nearest  post  office  entirely  unpronounceable, 
proved  to  be  an  advance  sample  of  paradise.  Being  per- 
fect there  was  nothing  complex  about  it  —  and  very  little 
to  tell  concerning  it.  Time  flew,  the  hours  tumbling  over 
themselves  like  babies  at  play.  It  was  exactly  like  the 
thirsty  traveller  coming  upon  the  ice-cold  mountain  spring 
and  drinking  his  fill  with  no  comment  but  the  satisfied  and 
grateful,  "  A-a-h,  man  alive!  "  So  it  was  with  Thurley. 

It  seemed  that  Hobart  had  come  into  the  wilderness 
prepared  to  prove  that  he  could  make  it  habitable,  as  he 
told  her.  After  he  had  built  a  shack,  found  his  food  and 
water,  lived  by  himself  for  weeks  at  a  time  to  experiment 
with  bark,  twigs  and  logs  —  learning  the  call  of  wood 

360 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

beastles  and  forgetting  the  cries  of  men  —  he  permitted 
himself  a  few  extravagances  in  the  way  of  tools  and  fur- 
nishings until  Blessed  Memory,  as  he  called  the  small, 
silvery  shingled  house  set  in  a  sand  dune  like  a  great 
moonstone  in  palest  gold,  came  to  be  a  reputable  habita- 
tion where  he  took  refuge  each  year,  "  living,"  he  said,  in 
order  that  he  might  u  exist  the  rest  of  the  time." 

Miss  Clergy  was  ill  at  ease  in  her  nunlike  bedroom 
without  ornament  and  scant  of  furnishings.  But  she 
found  thought  for  reflection  in  watching  Thurley  and 
Bliss  as  they  went  off  to  try  for  fresh  fish.  Her  queer, 
bright  eyes  would  blink  rapidly  as  if  a  succession  of  un- 
pleasing  thoughts  had  attacked  her  conscience  and  she  re- 
fused to  give  way  to  them.  When  they  would  return 
and  hallo  for  her  to  answer,  she  would  usually  take  refuge 
in  the  plea  of  eternal  neuralgia  and  leave  them  to  their 
own  ways  for  the  remainder  of  the  day! 

The  rooms  contained  old-style  braided  rugs  and  a  spin- 
ning wheel  which,  to  Hobart's  delight,  Thurley  knew 
how  to  use,  thanks  to  Betsey  Pilrig,  old  blue  china  and 
pewter,  a  square  piano  on  which  Hobart  played  jingling 
tunes  while  Thurley  sang  them  as  gloriously  as  when  she 
played  missionary  with  Philena.  The  beds  were  mahog- 
any, so  was  the  fire  settle,  and  there  was  an  out-door 
Dutch  oven  which  her  host  insisted  on  using,  a  pump  and 
a  well  and  a  tiny  barn  where  his  wheezy  little  automobile 
rested  when  it  was  not  chasing  up  and  down  country 
roads  in  search  of  supplies. 

He  had  no  real  neighbors  nor  did  he  wish  for  them. 
He  had  bought  enough  acres  on  all  sides  of  Blessed 
Memory  to  secure  him  freedom  from  molestation.  He 
wanted  to  feel,  so  he  explained,  that  even  lavender 
and  black  velvety  butterflies,  great,  golden  bees  and  hum- 
ming-birds might  come  and  go  at  will. 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

There  were  no  books  or  even  writing  materials  in  the 
house.  '  When  I  have  to  go  in  to  town  for  supplies,  I 
get  my  extremely  urgent  mail  and  reply  to  it  while  at  the 
post  office,"  he  explained.  "  But  I  wish  nothing  inky 
about  the  hermitage." 

Thurley,  who  had  first  viewed  the  little  house  and  the 
wild  surroundings  with  dismay  as  to  what  she  would  ever 
do  with  herself,  fell  to  work  within  a  few  days  and  be- 
came a  busy  Martha  engrossed  with  house  and  outdoor 
work,  plying  the  axe  while  Hobart  was  away,  replanting 
flower  beds,  picking  berries,  climbing  trees  to  sit  astride 
some  sturdy  limb  and  dream  of  nothing,  actually  to  for- 
get language,  as  it  were,  entering  the  realm  of  delicious 
thought,  rejoicing  in  merely  singing  sounds  as  did  the 
birds,  instead  of  clumsy  words  needing  to  be  phrased 
and  accented. 

"  I  never  knew  any  one  could  be  so  busy  in  such  a 
wilderness,"  she  told  Hobart  one  late  afternoon  when 
they  had  tramped  clear  to  the  sea-coast  and  sat  resting 
before  they  journeyed  homeward  with  the  aid  of  barn 
lanterns. 

"  Because  you  and  I  and  other  creatures  who  live  by 
their  wits  most  of  the  time  and  have  the  tasks  of  physical 
existence  performed  for  them,  need  to  remember  that  one 
can  almost  see  and  feel  the  truth  of  eternity  .  .  .  the 
eternal  seasons,  Thurley,  the  ever-dying,  ever-reviving 
blossoms,  the  migration  of  the  birds,  the  continual  prog- 
ress and  continual  decay  of  all  forms  of  life  —  that  is 
what  makes  us  really  seem  so  busy.  Because  most  of  the 
time  we  are  nibbling  at  a  fragment  of  this  supreme  truth, 
boxed  up  in  a  steam-heated  apartment  with  a  man  and  a 
maid  and  an  engagement  tablet  to  be  our  aids,  we  sing 
some  silly  opera  and  return  to  the  apartment  convinced 
we  are  quite  indispensable  to  mankind.  We  need  to  come 

362  • 


to  such  a  place  as  this  and  humbly  realize  eternity. 
That  is  why  I  named  the  little  house  Blessed  Memory, 
because  I  carry  the  thought  with  me  when  I  lock  the  door 
for  the  long,  white  winter." 

Thurley  was  silent,  the  most  sympathetic  answer  she 
could  have  made.  She  was  mentally  quoting, 

"  Cool  girdles  and  crests  of  the  sea  gods, 

"  Bright  hollows  of  billowy  foam  " —  as  suitable  for 
the  scene. 

It  was  a  quiet  sea  haven  they  had  found.  Bliss  had 
tramped  there  many  times,  he  told  her.  Around  them 
were  wet  sea  wrack  and  pungent  bog  myrtle,  tall  protrud- 
ing cliffs  with  the  green  grass  clinging  to  them  and  dusky 
birds  incessantly  slipping  about.  The  sea  itself  was  a 
shadowy,  gray  wilderness  broken  with  rosy  trails  which 
led  to  darkish  mystery.  In  the  sky  a  star  trembled. 

'  Tell  me  more,"  she  demanded  childishly. 

"What  about?  I  must  seem  as  bad  as  a  complete 
reading  course  shipped  on  without  warning,"  he  began, 
playing  with  pebbles,  "  but  do  you  know  what  I  was 
thinking,  Thurley?  That  the  art  vanguard  are  certain 
to  succeed,  that  this  time  of  strife  should  not  be  for 
merely  freedom  of  seas  and  colony  disputes  —  it  is  the 
time  of  discord  in  which  all  matters  shall  have  their  hear- 
ing. And  then,  one  sees  absurd  glimpses  now  and  then 
that  make  one  want  to  shout  for  joy  — " 

"What?" 

"  Oh,  a  life  insurance  agent  with  a  well  worn  copy  of 
Keats  in  his  inner  pocket  or  the  apparently  frivolous  hair- 
dresser who  reads  Ruskin's  essays  with  the  girl  who  sells 
fountain  pens  during  lunch  hour  —  or  a  very  famous 
prima  donna  who  finally  admits  that  the  shadow  can 
never  be  the  substance  and  that  works  without  faith  are 
dead,  too!  " 

363 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Thurley  was  thinking  in  disconnected  fashion.  "  Tell 
me,  will  the  war  level  class  as  well,  so  that  it  will  result 
in  there  being  no  very  rich  or  no  poor?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  We  must  always  have  wealth 
demonstrate  herself  with  freedom;  we  must  always  have 
class.  Let  each  man  be  what  he  was  best  intended;  we 
cannot  have  one  class,  one  rule,  one  creed  any  more  than 
one  dimension.  The  Cause  who  made  such  eternal  con- 
trasts as  the  snowbound  north  and  orchid-decorated  trop- 
ics, the  sagebrush  desert  and  the  French  vineyards  — 
has  the  example  not  been  set  us  for  all  time?  There 
must  be  wealth  and  its  opposite  poverty  and  the  sunny, 
useful  medium  running  between  the  two  and  understand- 
ing each  alike.  Remember,  player  and  worker  are  like 
the  wings  of  a  bird,  equal  and  necessary.  Class  must 
exist  the  same  as  vicarious  atonement  —  the  mother  bear- 
ing the  child,  soldiers  fighting  for  stay-at-homes.  The 
ancient  but  sometimes  forgotten  or  denied  unity  of  the 
race  is  the  belief  in  immortality." 

It  was  dark;  the  sea  with  the  white  rocks  rising  out 
of  the  water  here  and  there  gave  the  effect  of  the  black 
and  white  cathedral  front  at  Siena.  Hobart  lit  their 
lanterns  and  urged  a  homeward  journey. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,"  Thurley  begged.  "  Tell  me 
more  — " 

"  Yet  you  try  to  make  me  think  you  do  not  believe  my 
vision,"  he  said,  "  that  you  will  not  be  like  the  soldier 
in  the  old  song,  who  did  not  halt  but  '  he  gave  the  bridle- 
reins  another  shake.'  ' 

"  Tell  me  why  artists  have  different  lives  from  the 
world  in  general,"  she  retorted. 

"  There  are  some  isolated,  superb  but  lonely  souls 
whose  work  robs  them  of  human  ties  and  leaves  them 
chaste  yet  wistful.  True,  again,  on  the  firm  yet  terrible 

364 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

foundation  of  expiated  sins  is  genius  often  laid  —  the 
splendid  blossom  of  the  tree  of  experience.  The  great- 
est leaders  have  often,  to  their  enemies'  delight,  pleaded 
guilty  to  a  youth  of  folly,  small  faults,  petty  actions  — 
and  yet  there  has  come  an  awakening  and  with  the  handi- 
cap of  the  past  as  a  ballast,  they  forge  on  to  the  heights. 
I  sometimes  think  handicaps  are  as  necessary  for  an 
artist  as  ballast  for  a  balloon.  Without  them  we 
would  sail  upwards  beyond  ordinary  comprehension  and 
the  whole  purpose  would  be  of  no  avail.  Let  us  stay 
sufficiently  earthbound  to  insure  usefulness  and  proper 
responsibility.  .  .  .  Come,  Thurley,  even  if  the  poets  say 
the  children  of  dark  and  the  children  of  light  tread  the 
same  pathway,  our  lanterns  may  fail  us  and  we  would 
have  to  scramble  to  find  the  house."  He  helped  her  up. 

"  You  mean,  too,"  she  said,  not  content  to  stop  the 
argument,  "  that  artists  should  set  the  example  —  as 
well  as  prescribe  one — " 

"  Those  who  are  not  sufficiently  developed  to  perceive 
the  higher  cosmic  laws  must  have  man-made  laws  to  teach 
the  first  great  principle  —  which  is  to  obey.  Obedience 
either  forced  or  voluntary  is  the  first  requisite  in  moulding 
character.  Those  of  us  who  can  glimpse  the  higher  laws 
must  also  keep  annoying  man-made  ones  to  help  those 
less  developed  by  our  example." 

Thurley  began  picking  her  way  along  the  beach,  sing- 
ing softly: 

If  all  the  seas  were  one  sea  —  what  a  great  sea  it  would  be! 
If  all  the  trees  were  one  tree  —  what  a  great  tree  it  would  be! 
If  all  the  axes  were  one  axe  —  what  a  great  axe  that  would  be! 
AND  if  all  the  men  were  one  man  —  what  a  great  man  Bliss  would 
be! 

Three  weeks  later  when  Hobart  drove  Thurley  into 

365 


THE  GRAY.  ANGELS 

the  nearest  station,  he  asked  almost  timidly  if  she  felt 
it  had  been  worth  while. 

"  So  worth  while,"  she  said,  "  it  showed  me  what  I 
must  not  do." 

Miss  Clergy  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  was  settled 
on  the  local  train  running  down  to  the  main  line. 

"  You  look  like  a  little  girl  again,"  she  told  Thurley. 
"  I'm  sure  it  was  very  kind  of  him.  .  .  .  Did  you  ever 
fancy  he  might  fall  in  love  with  you?  Imagine  how 
distressing  it  would  be  for  him  —  knowing  your  posi- 
tion!" 

Thurley  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable,  and  as  they 
jolted  onward  she  thought  of  how  very  great  and  how 
very  small  was  love  and  that  from  atom  to  apostle  the 
personal  equation  would  come  blundering  in  on  one's 
most  sacred  thoughts. 


366 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

The  remainder  of  the  summer  found  Thurley  unde- 
cided as  to  what  she  should  do  next  and  not  having  Hor- 
tense  as  an  aide-de-camp  and  with  Polly  still  squander- 
ing her  legacy,  Thurley  stayed  in  town  to  collect  her 
faculties  and  study  new  roles. 

She  found  that  women  were  chattering  about  "  finding 
the  group  spirit,"  pointing  with  envy  and  emulation  to 
the  soldiers  who  had  found  "  the  group  spirit  "  and  were 
working  together  for  the  cause.  The  germ  of  unrest, 
masquerading  under  the  altruistic  title  of  "  group  spirit," 
was  prevalent  among  all  the  women  Thurley  knew  and 
those  of  whom  she  heard. 

Even  Ernestine  came  to  explain  incoherently  that  she 
had  cancelled  the  season's  engagements  to  sail  for  France 
— "  to  help  " —  anything  that  was  needed,  play  or  amuse 
or  scrub  floors,  Thurley  dear,  and  was  noncommittal  as 
to  her  disorganized  interests  at  home  or  her  personal 
qualifications  to  serve  in  this  capacity.  Thurley  accepted 
Ernestine's  good-by  with  a  sense  of  amusement.  Thur- 
ley herself  did  not  feel  she  was  slacking  although  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  explain  just  why  she  did 
not.  She,  too,  had  brought  the  "  blessed  memory " 
with  her  from  the  hermitage,  acting  as  ballast  for  the 
chaos  which  prevailed  about  her. 

A  feeling  of  age  had  also  claimed  her.  She  seemed 
to  see  beyond  these  struggling,  enthusiastic  but  deluded 
women  who  were  sincere  in  their  efforts,  yet  forgetful 
that  to  serve  one's  immediate  circle  of  dependents  is  the 

36? 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

best  way  in  which  to  serve  the  larger  cause.  Thurley 
saw  ahead  to  the  psychological  struggle  taking  place  in 
one  year,  three,  five  —  who  knows?  —  when  these  rest- 
less spirits,  suffering  from  repression  of  emotion  or  en- 
nui had  rushed  pell  mell  with  a  bevy  of  excuses  and 
accomplishments  into  the  teeth  of  the  fight  and  the  fight 
had  unexpectedly  ceased  and  their  adventure  was  at  an 
end. 

She  did  not  try  to  argue  with  Ernestine  to  stay  at 
home  and  when  Mark  came  to  say  good-by,  a  few  morn- 
ings later,  saying  he  was  to  dance  and  give  athletic 
drills  overseas,  she  said  very  faintly, 

"  But  is  war  a  pink  tea?  If  I  were  a  soldier  and  I 
saw  an  able-bodied  man  dancing  about  in  a  toga  to  give 
an  imitation  of  Greek  handball,  I'd  ask  him  to  get  into 
the  trenches  with  me  or  quit.  After  all,  Mark,  you  are 
going  because  Lissa  is  going!  " 

"  Lissa  is  after  a  duke,"  Mark  said  lightly.  "  How 
about  one  of  these  floor-scrubbing  duchesses?  What 
about  yourself?  You  might  capture  an  earl,"  drawing 
on  his  cream-colored  kid  gloves.  "  Fancy  Bliss,  who 
blew  in  yesterday  fit  as  a  fiddle,  declaring  he  would  stick 
along  at  the  old  game  right  here." 

Thurley's  face  must  have  showed  her  joy. 

"  Oh-ho,  so  Lissa  is  right,"  Mark  laughed.  "  She  al- 
ways contended  that  it  was  Bliss  whose  word  was  law 
with  you  1  " 

Thurley  put  up  her  hands  in  protest  and  dismissed 
him,  sending  Lissa  a  good-by  present  and  evading  a  possi- 
ble interview.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  she  could  endure 
these  vapid  persons  who  were  rushing  over  to  gain  fame, 
excitement,  copy  or  a  worth-while  matrimonial  alliance! 
She  saw,  in  truth,  the  result  of  Bliss  Hobart's  words,  that 
were  the  foundation  of  art  of  sterner  stuff  regarding  per- 

368 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

sonalities,  these  cluttery  amateurs  and  intriguers  would 
be,  perforce,  engaged  in  some  industry  and  not  foot-loose 
to  follow  the  procession.  The  really  great  souls  whose 
work  would  ennoble  the  cause  could  go  forth  unquestioned 
and  certain  of  results. 

The  morning's  mail  brought  her  consolation  —  a  note 
from  Collin,  characteristically  brief  and  with  a  pencil 
sketch  of  himself,  very  knock-kneed  and  bulging  of  eye, 
clad  in  uniform. 

Dear  Thurley  (he  wrote) 

After  all,  women  aren't  the  only  ones  to  change  their  minds. 
Don't  laff!  Or  I'll  cut  you  off  without  a  helmet.  I've  traded  my 
brush  for  a  bayonet.  It  got  me.  That's  why  —  selah, 

Collin 

"  Good  boy,"  Thurley  said  as  she  finished  reading 
the  note  to  Miss  Clergy,  "  and  I  suppose  Polly  will  march 
in  with  the  Long  Island  Legion  of  Death  behind  her, 
making  war  on  me  if  I  dare  to  smile." 

"  But  you  won't  have  to  stop  singing,  will  you?  "  was 
all  Miss  Clergy  answered.  "  There'll  be  enough  people 
left  at  home  to  listen  to  you?" 

"  I  won't  stop,"  Thurley  promised  gently,  adding 
to  herself,  "  my  singing  is  Miss  Clergy's  form  of  an 
ooze!  " 

She  was  wondering  these  days  if,  when  she  met  Bliss 
Hobart  again,  the  holiday  at  Blessed  Memory  would 
serve  to  bring  them  into  closer  understanding  or  if, 
as  after  so  many  other  rare  moments,  there  would  follow 
a  desultory  friendship  with  the  same  harsh  taskmaster 
and  critic  speaking  no  more  of  visions. 

Later  in  the  day  he  did  call  on  her,  the  same  elegantly 
dressed  Mr.  Public  Opinion  who  was  so  besieged  with  pa- 
triotic duties  and  enterprises  and  enmeshed  in  a  mass  of 

369 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

detail  regarding  the  reconstruction  of  grand  opera,  law 
suits  impudently  presented  by  dismissed  Teutonic  song- 
birds, the  revival  of  English  and  French  music  and  the 
possibility  of  a  new  prodigy,  that  he  seemed  to  Thurley 
to  be  twin  brother  to  the  man  who  had  played  and  worked 
and  thought  in  the  fashion  of  a  hundred  years  ago  — 
in  a  hundred-years-ago  setting. 

"  Polly  is  busied  with  a  surprise,"  he  told  her,  "  a 
horrible  war  opera,  I  presume.  No  one  seems  able  to 
convince  her  she  is  hopeless.  And  that  ridiculous  devil 
of  a  Collin  has  gone  to  fight,  bless  him,  while  Ernestine 
has  fallen  prey  to  war-madness  which  is  besetting  emo- 
tional and  idle  women  and  she  will  return  with  a  new 
stock  of  morbidity  —  because  she  has  tried  to  do  some- 
thing which  she  had  no  excuse  for  attempting." 

"What  of  Mark,  Lissa,  Hortense?"  she  persisted, 
laughing. 

"  Banish  them  from  my  thoughts  — "  he  looked  at  her 
critically.  "  Yes,  it  did  you  good.  Now  that  I've  set 
the  example,  why  not  follow  it?  Find  a  wilderness 
and  build  a  house  in  the  middle  of  it.  At  eighty-two 
you'll  have  the  critics  wrangling  as  to  whether  you  are 
your  own  daughter!" 

"  Where  shall  I  go?  "  she  asked  rather  pointedly. 

"  Aha,  you  want  to  poach  on  my  reserve?  You  can't 
do  it!  Take  your  own  home  town;  isn't  it  wild  in 
spots?  Seems  to  me  you  used  to  say  so.  Take  twenty 
acres  and  bury  yourself  in  it.  Do  the  things  we  did  those 
four  weeks." 

"  Birge's  Corners!"  So,  he  was  to  remain  aloof. 
Birge's  Corners  where  she  had  returned  in  foolish  triumph 
and  ostentation  —  Dan  and  his  son  and  Lorraine  would 
be  there,  a  harmonious  trio!  There  was  no  place  for 
her  at  Birge's  Corners. 

370 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I'll  consider  it,"  was  all  she  said. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  of  Sam  Sparling,"  Hobart  added 
in  a  gentler  tone.  "  Evidently  you  have  not  heard?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  It  happened  while  we  were  away.  Had  a  nervous 
collapse  —  a  stroke  as  well,  and  was  battered  up  for 
keeps  —  all  one  side.  Seems  he  had  tossed  his  money 
around  without  thought  and  he  was  left  stony  broke. 
So  they  gave  him  a  royal  London  benefit.  The  war 
paused  long  enough  to  honor  the  old  chap.  People 
came  hours  before  the  performance  and  waited  on  street 
curbs,  brought  their  lunch  and  all  that.  A  stall  was 
as  hard  to  get  the  day  of  the  performance  as  a  slice 
of  the  moon.  Baxter  says  it  was  as  great  an  event  in 
its  particular  way  as  a  coronation.  They  all  turned  out, 
great  and  small,  old  and  young,  to  give  Sam  a  valedictory. 
And  now  blush,  Thurley.  They  even  had  your  voice 
on  a  talking  machine  singing,  '  Drink  to  me  only  with 
thine  eyes,'  and  it  was  encored !  There,  doesn't  that  set 
you  up  ?  I  can't  tell  you  the  exact  programme,  but  every 
great  artist  available  appeared.  There  was  every  one 
from  a  coster  singer  to  the  finest  Shakespearean  artist. 
And  then  the  curtain  rose  for  the  finale  —  all  the  artists 
were  in  tiers  and  dressed  in  evening  costume.  Up  high 
on  a  sort  of  throne  sat  our  Sam,  weak  and  not  quite 
resigned  yet  to  the  truth  of  what  had  happened  but 
gamey  old  Sam  in  a  tuxedo  and  a  gardenia  in  his  button- 
hole !  The  house  burst  into  one  sobbing  roar  —  for 
he  was  their  Sam  Sparling  and  they  were  going  to  prove 
it." 

"What  did  he  do?  Oh,  why  weren't  we  there?" 
Thurley  cried. 

"  First,  the  house  sang  the  street  gamin  song  Sam  had 
sung  when  a  lad,  a  catchy  tune  with  a  refrain  of, 

371 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

*  Let  me  hold  your  nag,  sir, 
Or  your  little  bag,  sir, 
Anything  you  please  to  give  — 
Oh  —  thank  'ee,  sir  —  ! ' 

"  He  used  to  do  a  clog  dance  with  it  and  have  that 
laugh  of  his  thrown  in  for  good  value.  Well,  the  people 
forgot  his  Shakespearean  triumphs  and  his  drama  work; 
they  just  sang  the  old  song  between  their  laughing  and 
crying.  Then  two  men  helped  Sam  to  half  stand,  a  ter- 
rible effort  for  the  dear  old  chap,  but  the  house  rewarded 
him, —  they  sobbed  louder  than  ever.  All  Sam  said  was, 
with  an  echo  of  the  old  street  gamin  laugh,  '  Thank  'ee, 
sirs  ' —  and  then  he  fell  back  —  dead !  The  excitement 
was  too  much  .  .  .  and  the  money  will  go  to  the  soldiers." 

"  But  that,"  said  Bliss,  after  Thurley  managed  to 
stop  sobbing,  "  isn't  the  thing  that  hurts  the  worst. 
That  was  a  superb  ending  —  just  as  Sam  himself  would 
have  staged  it.  But  the  very  next  day,  the  leading  daily 
announced  they  would  run  a  series  entitled  '  Sam  Spar- 
ling's Breach  of  Promise  Suits  '  as  told  by  an  '  old  beau  ' 
—  and  there  you  have  what  I've  said  in  a  nut-shell  — 
the  wrong  the  man  Sparling  did  to  his  better  self  living 
after  him,  the  good  forgotten,  undervalued.  All  due 
to  the  present  day  system  of  advertising  and  standards 
for  artists'  personalities." 

"  What  will  it  be  after  the  war?  "  Thurley  added. 

"  It  will  be  the  duty  of  every  person  to  discriminate 
between  the  army,  whether  military,  spiritual  or  mental, 
which  has  won  the  cause  and  what  I  name  the  jumblers-in, 
emotional  hoboes  who  have  profiteered  or  indulged  in 
mental  orgies  or  distorted  patriotism  in  order  to  market 
inferior  wares  — "  He  was  about  to  say  more  when 
Miss  Clergy  came  in,  her  sharp  eyes  looking  at  Thurley's 
tear-stained  cheeks.  Being  a  mere  man,  Hobart  fled! 

372 


In  September  Thurley  did  go  back  to  the  Corners, 
Miss  Clergy  with  her,  but  she  did  not  take  the  maid,  the 
accompanist,  the  extra  motor  car  with  which  to  startle 
the  natives. 

"  I  keep  humming  the  old  tune : 

'  Home,  boys,  home,  in  the  old  countree, 
'  Neath  the  oak  and  the  ash  and  the  spreading  maple-tree/  " 

she  confessed  to  Bliss  the  day  before  she  left,  "  so  it's 
home  I'm  going  and  I'll  probably  race  back  to  town  and 
wonder  what  madness  moved  me." 

Her  concert  season  did  not  begin  until  November, 
for  which  she  was  thankful  and  with  Miss  Clergy  amicably 
assenting  to  the  return,  Thurley  sent  word  to  reopen  the 
Fincherie. 

Inspiring  her  return  was  the  longing  to  see  Dan  and 
Lorraine  and  the  harmony  which  their  child  had  brought 
them.  Envious  though  she  was  and  starved  with  the 
longing  to  have  some  one  of  her  very  own,  Thurley  had 
come  to  judge  things  with  a  broader  gauge.  She  wanted 
the  satisfaction  of  saying  to  Dan  that  she  was  glad  for 
him  and  she  understood.  She  must  tell  Lorraine  that 
she  was  truly  friends  with  "  the  family!  " 

She  knew  her  world  would  have  ridiculed  her  ridiculous 
conscience,  deeming  it  more  essential  that  she  reopen 
the  flirtation  with  the  chewing-gum  king  or  find  out  a 
more  distinctive  method  of  advertising.  But  to  Thurley 
the  contented  handshake  of  Dan  Birge  and  his  wife's 
smile  was  more  to  the  point.  So  she  drove  quietly  into 

373 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  Corners  one  warm,  early  fall  day  when  every  color 
in  Dame  Nature's  paint  box  had  been  employed  in  the 
bordering  trees  of  the  Fincherie  lawn.  She  said  to  Ali 
Baba  who  met  them  eagerly, 

"  I've  come  home  again." 

Nor  did  she  waver  from  that  manner.  She  went  into 
the  bedrooms  and  proceeded  to  settle  Miss  Clergy  and 
herself  with  as  businesslike  an  air  as  her  own  maid  had 
done,  stopping  to  ask  Betsey  and  Hopeful  questions  which 
she  knew  would  please,  telling  them  again  and  again  that 
it  seemed  good  to  "  be  home." 

"  I  guess  you'll  find  a  lot  of  changes,"  Betsey  said, 
lingering  in  the  room.  "  I  guess  you're  changed  some 
yourself,"  her  kind  old  eyes  looking  at  the  girl  shrewdly. 

"  Come,  Betsey,  you're  going  to  accuse  me  of  grow- 
ing old !  Now  what  is  it  —  let  me  hear  the  worst  ?  " 

"  No,"  Betsey  pushed  her  glasses  on  to  the  top  of 
her  head  so  as  to  see  the  better,  "  it's  a  change  of  heart 
—  like  I've  heard  tell  about,"  unconscious  of  Thur- 
ley's  desire  both  to  laugh  and  cry,  "  a  real  change  of 
heart,  I  guess." 

"Was  I  that  bad?"  Thurley  asked  penitently.  "I 
thought  only  the  town  drunkards  had  changes  of 
heart — "  she  paused,  realizing  it  was  not  fair  to  tax 
Betsey's  sense  of  humor.  "  It  is  this,  Betsey,  I've  grown 
up  and  with  all  the  wonderful  things  life  has  given  me, 
I  have  no  one  of  my  own,  so,"  she  finished  bravely,  "  I'm 
determined  to  belong  to  a  town.  .  .  .  now,  Betsey,  tell 
me,  what  are  my  chances  for  having  Birge's  Corners  fall 
dead  in  love  with  me?  "  amused  at  Betsey's  struggles  to 
be  honest  yet  not  offend. 

"  I  guess  you  give  'em  an  earful  the  last  time,"  Bet- 
sey began.  "  You  know,  Thurley,  they  ain't  up  to  the 
new  ways  —  and  you  —  you  — " 

374 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  You're  afraid  I  don't  understand,"  Thurley  hugged 
her  —  because  she  wanted  to  hug  some  one  and  Betsey 
happened  to  be  handy.  "  I  do  understand  —  but  re- 
member the  old  railway  crossing  advice,  '  stop  —  look 
—  listen  ' — "  here  she  handed  out  a  dress  pattern  for  a 
present  and  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  debate  as  to 
whether  there  should  be  box  pleats  or  a  circular  skirt ! 

Within  a  short  time  Thurley  became  both  unconscious 
and  disinterested  as  to  her  own  change  of  heart.  For 
she  discovered  that  here  was  an  opportunity  to  study 
first  hand  and  in  unsuspected  fashion  the  war  madness 
which  was  taking  its  toll  of  house-and-garden  folk  des- 
tined to  do  their  bit  by  stay-at-home  effort.  The  news 
that  Dan  had  a  commission  did  not  surprise  her  beyond 
a  certain  pride,  almost  as  if  she  had  been  instrumental 
in  her  arguments  for  his  going.  She  thought  that  Lor- 
raine probably  cried  a  little  and  tried  to  convince  Dan 
his  duty  lay  at  home  because  of  the  boy;  she  could  pic- 
ture Lorraine's  distressed,  pretty  self  as  she  coaxed  Dan 
not  to  go  "  and  get  killed  "  and  Dan's  sentimental  side 
warring  with  his  manhood.  At  any  rate  he  had  gone,  so 
Betsey  told  her,  watching  Thurley's  face  for  some  evi- 
dence as  to  her  state  of  feeling.  Also  he  was  making  the 
very  best  first  lieutenant  in  the  army  —  for  was  he  not 
the  first  commissioned  officer  from  the  Corners? 

There  had  been  a  quota  of  village  lads,  some  of  whom 
Thurley  remembered,  who  had  gone  and  there  was  a 
fudge  club  organized  by  the  village  maidens  which  yielded 
weekly  so  many  pounds  of  sugary  delight  to  be  for- 
warded to  the  training  camps.  The  social  club  was  a 
Red  Cross  center,  the  lodge  rooms  were  forwarding 
station  for  garments  and  relief  funds,  no  corner  of  the 
town  but  what  had  scrambled  personal  possessions  into 
a  corner  to  make  way  for  impersonal  duties. 

375 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

As  Thurley  saw  these  evidences  in  even  the  shut-in 
hamlet,  she  reproached  herself  for  having  mere  visions 
of  a  time  far  ahead  when  America  should  win  the  violet 
crown,  the  time  when  the  future  generations  would  re- 
cite in  history  the  events  of  the  war  of  wars  and  then 
say  with  as  much  assertion  as  they  told  of  the  enemy's 
defeat,  "  A  renaissance  in  art  was  noted  in  America 
during  the  reconstruction  period,  art  was  placed  on  a 
more  permanent,  moral  basis,  there  was  a  widecut  de- 
stroying and  discouragement  of  all  pursuits  and  achieve- 
ments which  did  not  conform  to  a  high  moral  and  spir- 
itual idea.  For  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  the 
world,  our  people  demanded  of  artists  more  than  their 
work,  they  demanded  a  conforming  to  moral  law  so 
that  the  number  of  art  workers  became  fewer  and  the 
public  was  relieved  of  superfluous  art  intriguers  whose 
influence  was  a  menace."  So  would  the  children  re- 
cite and  when  the  teacher  would  ask:  "Who  inspired 
this  great  movement?"  their  answer  would  be,  "Bliss 
Hobart,  he  named  it  the  violet  crown  —  the  crown  for 
supremacy,  violet  as  the  eccelesiastics  interpret  it  —  for 
humility." 

Thurley  could  almost  fancy  she  heard  the  answer  be- 
ing made,  as  glorious  a  feat  as  there  ever  was  to  be, 
to  have  children  speak  one's  name  with  admiration,  to 
have  shown  America  over-rich  in  all  physical  attributes, 
as  taking  for  her  spoils  the  greatest  lesson  of  all,  re- 
educating her  artists  so  they  might  draw  on  the  wonder- 
ful and  hitherto  barely  skimmed  surface  of  her  astral  or 
mystical  energy  which  lies  waiting  for  all  true  idealists. 

The  third  day  after  Thurley's  return,  when  she  was 
card-indexing  her  thoughts  in  order  to  begin  her  concert 
tour,  wondering  how  to  convince  the  town  that  she  had 
returned  to  be  one  of  them  and  that  no  matter  how  great 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  world  might  call  her  she  did  not  belong  to  the  world 
but  to  Birge's  Corners,  she  finally  decided  to  go  to  see 
Lorraine. 

She  was  amused  at  the  situation  as  she  slipped  into  a 
frock  like  the  beautiful  green  blue  rust  which  comes  on 
copper  and  put  a  gold  piece  in  her  purse  for  the  boy. 
She,  Thurley  Precore,  like  a  wistful  village  spinster,  going 
to  call  on  the  son  of  her  erstwhile  adorer  1  And  she  chose 
to  carry  out  the  illusion  by  walking  through  the  streets, 
nodding  at  passers-by  and  pretending  not  to  notice  their 
astonished  glances. 

The  Corners  could  never  quite  forget  the  birthday 
party  for  Taffy,  although  Taffy  had  long  since  ascended 
to  canine  realms  above. 

She  came  upon  a  gathering  in  front  of  Dan's  store 
—  she  had  wanted  to  go  inside  to  buy  some  trifle  and 
recall  the  atmosphere  of  the  old  days,  even  if  Dan's 
desk  was  now  locked  and  deserted,  the  days  when  a 
willful  girl  used  to  dance  in  and  call  "  Cohoo  "  up  at 
the  young  proprietor.  But  there  was  a  platform  in 
front  of  the  showcases  and  women  were  sitting  on  it, 
all  of  them  in  uniforms.  They  had  a  barrel  for  a  table, 
a  pitcher  of  water  and  glasses,  and  pamphlets  which  they 
flung  out  into  the  crowd  at  intervals.  Boy  Scouts  were 
standing  in  line  and  singing  lustily  the  doughboy  favor- 
ite, while  a  small  person  also  in  uniform  directed  them 
with  wild  gestures: 

Oh,  there  was  a  little  hen  and  she  had  a  wooden  leg, 
The  best  little  hen  that  ever  laid  an  egg, 
And  she  laid  more  eggs  than  any  hen  on  the  farm  — 
And  another  little  drink  won't  do  us  any  harm  — 

As  the  crowd  cheered,  the  small  directress  turned  to 
face  them  and  speak  in  a  shrill,  excited  voice  about  the 

377 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

need  for  funds,  lapsing  into  slang  when  other  superla- 
tive failed  her,  striding  up  and  down,  her  soldier  hat 
on  one  side  and  her  hair  dishevelled.  It  was  Lor- 
raine Birge!  Thurley  felt  as  if  the  world  were  ap- 
proaching an  end  as  she  discovered  the  identity  of  the 
speaker.  Beside  Lorraine  were  Josie  Donaldson,  Hazel 
Mitchell  and  presently  Cora  Spooner  appeared  to  play 
an  uncertain  trombone  solo,  while  a  queer  youth  in  white 
flannels  and  a  dangling  eye  glass  began  passing  the  hat 
—  it  was  Oweyne  Pringle  of  the  art  shoppe ! 

He  gurgled  his  delight  when  he  recognized  Thurley. 
'  You'll  have  to  sing  for  us  —  the  crowd  will  be  twice 
as  generous  ...  oh,  do,  it  will  please  Mrs.  Birge." 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Birge  I  will  wait  for  her  after  the  meet- 
ing." Thurley  weakly  dropped  the  gold  piece  she  had 
intended  for  the  boy  into  the  offered  hat. 

After  the  collection  and  another  shower  of  pamphlets, 
Lorraine  and  her  young  Coldstream  Guards  marched  off 
the  platform  to  tack  up  placards  asking  for  farmerettes 
and  speakerettes  to  be  pressed  into  service.  Then  Lor- 
raine dashed  over  to  Thurley  —  nothing  left  of  the  timid 
little  person  with  a  saddish  look  in  her  dove-colored  eyes. 
She  approached  Thurley  as  hail-fellow  well-met,  holding 
out  her  hand  cordially: 

"  Well,  Thurley,  you've  stolen  a  march  on  us.  You 
would  have  been  dragged  up  here  to  sing  if  I'd  seen 
you  .  .  .  isn't  it  glorious?"  She  paused  as  if  uncer- 
tain whether  it  was  the  war,  the  audience  or  Thurley's 
frock. 

"  I  was  going  to  call  on  you,"  Thurley  said  gravely. 

"Come  along —  I  drive  the  car  now.  Yes,  in- 
deed, I'm  qualifying  for  an  ambulance  corps.  Come  on, 
girls  —  this  is  Thurley  Precore  who'll  boost  the  subscrip- 
tions a  lot  —  you  know  these  girls  —  Josie,  Cora,  Hazel 

378 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

—  and,  Owen,  you  stay  behind  and  take  in  the  platform 
and  the  barrel." 

They  piled  into  the  muddied  car  while  Lorraine 
whizzed  them  up  the  hill.  Sentimental  thoughts  about 
entering  Dan's  house,  which  was  to  have  once  been 
hers,  took  flight.  This  new  and  a  trifle  mad  Lorraine 
commanded  all  of  Thurley's  attention  —  and  sense  of 
humor. 

It  was  amusing  to  see  the  desperate  way  in  which  she 
strove  to  appear  mannish,  capable,  immune  to  fears  as  to 
bumblebees  or  punctured  tires,  shouting  out  commands 
to  her  "  crew,"  the  way  the  crew  shouted  back  opinions 
and  watched  Thurley  and  her  frock  in  semi-envy,  semi- 
disapproval!  They  left  the  car  before  the  door  and 
went  inside  in  breathless  fashion.  Lorraine  walked  up 
the  pathway  with  Thurley. 

"  How  can  you  bury  yourself  here,"  she  asked,  "  when 
you  could  be  speaking  to  crowds  in  New  York?  I'm  go- 
ing to  get  there  —  I  can't  go  overseas  because  of  Dan." 
She  almost  resented  the  interference! 

"I  was  tired  —  my  head  was  in  a  whirl,  the  season 
seems  a  nightmare  — " 

"  Oh,  not  personal  work  —  the  cause  we  women  have 
championed,"  she  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke. 

'  Where  is  your  boy?  "  Thurley  interrupted. 

"  Oh,  the  love  —  I've  a  girl  to  take  care  of  him,  I 
couldn't  do  both  my  war  work  and  the  boy."  Lorraine 
went  upstairs,  her  absurd  little  boots  tapping  impor- 
tantly. 

The  young  Coldstream  Guardesses  waited  below,  play- 
ing the  victrola  and  rummaging  for  a  dish  of  fudge. 

A  frowsly  headed,  sullen  girl  met  them  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs.  "  He's  bumped  hisself  again,"  she  said 
by  way  of  greeting. 

379 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  Then  watch  him  more,  Herta,"  Lorraine  was  petu- 
lant. "  Dear  me,  such  a  great  lad  ought  to  be  more 
steady  on  his  feet,  I  should  think!  " 

The  disordered  nursery  exhibited  traces  of  a  large 
lunch  which  Herta  had  consumed,  a  novel  spread  face 
downward,  also  for  Herta,  and  the  outlines  of  Herta's 
recumbent  form  on  the  divan.  Thurley's  face  was  dis- 
approving as  she  said  swiftly: 

"  If  I  were  a  detective,  I  could  explain  why  the  Boy 
bumped  himself!  " 

"  Oh,  Herta's  mad  about  him, —  dear  me,  some  days 
I  never  see  him  at  all.  He's  terribly  self-willed.  I 
spoiled  him  those  first  months  because  we  —  we  were  all 
so  happy,"  she  flushed  as  she  went  ahead.  "  Then  Dan 
went  away  and  I  saw  my  duty  as  a  war  worker.  I  really 
have  lived  in  the  fullest  sense  since  I  went  in  for  public 
work.  Thurley,  let's  be  friends  —  I  used  to  think  I 
envied  you  because  Dan  had  once  loved  you  so,"  there  was 
a  trace  of  the  old  Lorraine  as  she  spoke,  but  with  a 
surety  of  opinion  which  told  Thurley  that  Lorraine's 
husband  now  loved  only  his  wife!  "  Boy  made  it  all  so 
different.  Now  I  envy  you  because  you  are  free,  un- 
hampered, able  to  do  things  —  I'd  be  in  France  if  I 
could." 

Herta  appeared  with  Boy  in  her  arms,  a  splendid  lit- 
tle chap  if  he  had  had  a  little  more  grooming.  There 
were  telltale  hollows  under  his  pinkish  rimmed  eyes  in- 
dicative of  nervous  spasms,  of  unattended  or  unchecked 
sobs,  his  hands  were  soiled  and  scratched  and  a  blue- 
black  bump  stood  out  over  one  temple;  he  tried  his  best 
both  to  abuse  and  welcome  his  mother  in  his  incoherent 
greeting. 

"  Oh,  see  his  poor  head."  Thurley  took  him  from  the 

380 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

girl's  unwilling  arms.  "  Didn't  you  put  anything  on 
it?"  she  asked  her  sharply. 

"  He's  got  an  awful  temper,"  the  girl  retorted.  "  He 
fights  me  off  for  fair.  I  would  have,  but  he  didn't  want 
it  —  so  I  let  him  cry  it  out." 

Lorraine  interposed,  "  It  is  my  own  fault  —  I  never 
left  him  alone  at  first  and  it  makes  it  hard  for  any  one 
else  who  looks  after  him." 

Thurley  sat  down  to  rock  Boy.  "  I  should  think  you 
wouldn't  let  a  baby's  nerves  be  an  excuse  for  neglecting 
him,"  she  said  to  her  own  surprise.  "  He  must  have 
sobbed  and  sobbed  —  and  see,"  pointing  to  traces  of 
dried  and  goo-ey  egg  around  his  mouth. 

"  Oh,  we  scrub  him  up  at  night  —  it  really  doesn't  pay 
to  keep  him  like  a  doll.  ...  I  want  to  show  you  my 
letters  of  recommendation."  Lorraine  vanished  with 
Thurley  following  reluctantly,  Boy  in  her  arms  playing 
with  her  sash  fringe. 

The  entire  house  had  the  neglected  look  which  the 
town  had  prophesied  Thurley's  house  would  have  should 
she  marry  Dan  —  dust  over  everything,  unpolished  floors, 
a  careless  air  of  hurried  living,  merely  existing  within 
the  four  walls  in  order  to  escape  without.  Herta  poked 
herself  after  them,  with  a  look  of  disapproval  as  she 
watched  Thurley. 

When  Thurley  refused  to  surrender  Boy,  but  sat  down 
to  listen  to  this  new  and  surprising  Lorraine  tell  of  her 
work  and  aims,  mentioning  Dan  casually,  of  how  sur- 
prised he  would  be  at  her  development,  the  young  guard- 
esses  below  set  up  a  chorus  of  protests  and  came  bounding 
into  the  room  with  a  quick  hullo  to  Boy  and  a  "  Mercy, 
what  a  bruise,"  settling  themselves  on  the  divan  to  ex- 
plain their  life-work  to  Thurley. 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Of  course  they  were  all  going  overseas  —  heavens,  yes, 
why  Josie  and  Hazel  had  their  passports  and  were  wait- 
ing further  orders  —  didn't  Thurley  pine  to  go  and  sing? 
Fancy  any  one's  not  going  if  they  could  .  .  .  they  were 
all  going  to  keep  a  diary  and  take  a  camera,  lots  of 
people  had  smuggled  pictures  through,  they  just  knew 
they  had.  Owen  Pringle  was  going  too  —  he  was  so 
jolly  and  his  mother  was  related  to  a  senator  and  it  had 
all  been  arranged  for  him  —  these  old  fogies  who  said 
people  had  better  stay  home  and  'tend  to  their  knitting, 
who  listened  to  them?  —  at  least,  not  until  it  was  over 
.  .  .  just  think  of  the  adventures,  the  sea  trip  and  the 
chance  of  being  submarined,  every  one  said  there  were 
lots  of  life  boats  —  and  the  chance  to  learn  French  and 
the  friends  they  would  make,  particularly  moving  picture 
men.  Every  one  said  Cora  Spooner  was  as  good  as 
Nazimova,  only  she  needed  an  introduction  among  the 
professional  set,  while  the  ideas  for  Josie's  war  stories 
—  well,  all  the  editors  would  be  cabling  her !  Josie's 
mother  would  have  to  do  the  housework  because  the  help 
had  all  gone  to  the  munition  plants  and  her  aunt's  eyes 
had  failed  terribly  —  but  of  course  their  day  was  over 
and  it  was  Josie's  turn  to  find  adventures.  Besides,  she 
would  lose  weight.  There  was  an  incentive  —  she  did 
hate  being  called  Fatty  at  all  the  parties.  As  for  Hazel 
Mitchell  —  any  one  who  knew  what  a  wonderful  god- 
mother Hazel  had  been  to  several  Tommies  —  and 
what  beautiful  little  things  she  could  do  to  make  every 
one  happy  —  well,  Hazel  would  walk  in  and  literally 
back  melancholy  against  the  ropes.  Of  course  Lorraine 
had  to  stay  at  home  —  but  she  was  certainly  going  to 
try  to  speak  in  larger  cities  —  she  wanted  to  be  as  much 
of  the  great  cause  as  she  could  be  — 

382 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

Despite  the  clatter  of  tongues,  Boy's  dark  little  head 
drooped  wearily  and  he  slept  the  exhausted  sleep  of  a 
neglected  hysteric  who  feels  the  sympathetic  throb  of  a 
woman's  breast  and  can  afford  to  ignore  brainless  chat- 
ter. 

Lorraine  took  Thurley  home.  The  lieutenants  were 
all  to  stay  for  tea  and  start  out  on  an  evening  cam- 
paign. 

"  We'll  have  a  canned  supper  —  and  candy,"  she  said. 
"  I  do  think  I've  been  a  goose  to  drudge  so  in  the  kitchen 
—  but  no  more  of  it." 

"And  when  Dan  comes  home?"  Thurley  asked  in 
spite  of  herself. 

"  The  old  dear  will  be  so  used  to  soldiers'  fare  he'll 
think  mine  perfection.  .  .  .  Good-by,  Thurley,  do  change 
your  mind  and  give  us  a  benefit  sing.  Don't  worry  about 
Boy,  he  is  all  right,  I  weigh  him  every  week  and  I  am 
afraid  I'll  lose  Herta  if  I  find  too  much  fault  — " 

Ali  Baba  was  working  in  the  backyard  and  Thurley 
fled  with  relief  to  find  him  busied  with  currant  bushes. 

"  Ali  Baba,"  she  said,  stamping  her  foot,  "  look 
at  me  —  tell  me,  do  you  see  war-madness  in  my 
eyes?  " 

He  leaned  on  his  hand  cultivator  reflectively.  '  War 
madness?  Land  sakes  and  Mrs.  Davis,  that's  a  new 
one  — " 

"  You  have  seen  fame-madness  and  vanity-madness 
and  lonesome-madness  and  even  temper-madness  in  me," 
Thurley  confessed,  "  but  this  war-madness,  this  way  of 
leaving  houses  undusted  and  babies  unkissed  —  like  Lor- 
raine — " 

Ali  Baba  left  the  cultivator  to  come  forward.  His 
blue  eyes  were  keen  with  indignation.  "  Thurley,"  he 

383 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

said,  "  God  bless  our  women  that  work  and  pray  for 
the  boys,  but  I'm  gosh-hanged  sick  of  these  critters  chas- 
ing around  day  and  night  trying  their  best  to  get  changed 
into  these  here  semi-monjaysl  " 


384 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

When  it  was  time  for  Thurley  to  go  to  New  York, 
Miss  Clergy  intimated  that  she  would  spend  the  winter 
at  the  Fincherie,  while  the  Corners  said  Thurley  had 
returned  "  to  get  cured  of  something,"  because  she  had 
stayed  so  at  home  and  the  only  person  in  whom  she 
expressed  an  interest  had  been  Dan  Birge's  son. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  must  see  me  in  my  new  opera.  I'd  be 
lonesome  for  you  — " 

"  Lonesome  for  the  baby,"  Miss  Clergy  corrected, 
smiling.  "  There  are  dozens  of  people  you  can  have 
with  you,  Thurley  —  and  I'm  tired." 

So  Thurley  packed  her  trunks  and  told  All  Baba  to 
call  her  back  if  Miss  Clergy  seemed  even  inclined  to  want 
her.  The  day  before  she  was  to  leave,  she  wandered 
along  the  shore  of  the  lake,  looking  at  the  deserted 
mansions  with  a  perplexed  and  disapproving  air.  She 
had  found  much  of  which  to  disapprove  in  the  Corners. 

It  was  the  queer  war-madness  in  such  as  Lorraine  and 
her  following,  destroying  common  sense  and  blinding 
their  eyes. 

When  this  restless  army  returned,  whether  from 
overseas  or  from  home  service,  for  return  they  must, 
what  then  of  the  readjustment?  The  quiet  tragedies 
that  would  be  lived  down  slowly,  so  unsuspectedly  —  so 
bravely,  really.  After  every  one  in  the  home  town  had 
heard  their  stories  and  their  pictures  had  been  locally 
printed  —  what  then?  They  would  assume  the  old  jobs, 
the  maddening  procedure  of  "  Good  morning,  help,"  and 
"  Good  morning,  boss  " —  the  white  shirtwaist  on  Mon- 

385 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

day  and  the  pink  one  on  Thursday  and  the  dark  silk  for 
best  because  it  is  serviceable;  the  hall  bedroom  with 
the  respectable  family  who  are  always  asleep  by  ten 
o'clock,  the  ending  of  dreams,  the  failure  of  the  quest, 
the  defeating  admission  that  the  circle  and  not  the  cross 
is  life's  truest  symbol. 

Surely  these  people  would  turn  in  protest  to  art  as 
their  solace.  What  a  task  America  had  set  for  her,  what 
herculean  effort  Bliss  must  make  .  .  .  for  these  people 
would  appeal  to  the  accepted  standards  of  art  as  their 
defense.  The  plays,  poems,  stories,  songs,  pictures,  use- 
less bohemian  lives  that  would  follow  if  permitted,  the 
refusal  to  become  one  of  many  —  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  neighbors  and  not  the  enemies ! 

Thurley  rose  with  sudden  determination.  Right  al- 
ways ends  by  acquiring  might,  she  told  herself,  and  if 
Bliss  Hobart  possessed  a  vision  he,  himself,  was  power- 
less to  execute  it.  Player  and  worker  were  like  the 
wings  of  a  bird,  he  had  said,  equal  and  necessary  .  .  . 
then  so  were  dreamer  and  doer.  Thurley  could  do  — 
her  ancestors  probably  toddled  about  in  sabots  a  few 
generations  ago  but  she  thanked  heaven  for  the  sturdy, 
unknown  peasant  strain  in  her  which  gave  her  the  viril- 
ity to  act.  Hobart  was  the  patrician  dreamer  —  yet 
even  gold  cannot  be  used  in  its  purest  state,  it  requires 
a  sterner,  coarser  alloy  before  it  becomes  either  prac- 
tical or  fully  beautiful. 

"  After  the  boys  fall  out  of  step,"  Thurley  informed 
the  little  lake,  "  we  must  fall  in  step  —  teach  them  to 
go  forth  once  more  on  a  time  clock." 

"  Gray  angels  " —  that  was  what  the  people  in  the 
vanguard,  not  only  the  art  vanguard  but  in  all  avenues 
of  progress,  should  be  called, —  people  with  enough  of 
the  divine  in  them  to  have  no  fear  and  to  believe  in  the 

386 


ultimate  success  of  their  ideals,  and  enough  of  the 
human  sinner  to  understand  the  best  earthly  way  to  go 
about  it.  Gray  angels !  The  people  who  can  do  the 
needed  drudgery  which  permits  others  to  accomplish  the 
toil-free  feats;  stay-at-homes  were  gray  angels;  the  women 
who  did  not  lift  up  their  voices  in  egotistical  speech- 
making  or  in  whines  but  who  gave  their  sons  and  kept 
the  home  in  which  to  welcome  them  back;  those  quiet, 
undersized  little  chaps  with  poor  eyes  or  hollow  chests 
who  had  quietly  applied  at  recruiting  stations  only  to 
be  turned  off  with  a  laugh  —  they  were  gray  angels,  stay- 
ing at  the  helm  to  do  uninteresting  routine  which  is  al- 
ways needed  to  keep  things  afloat,  yet  applauding  those 
who  have  achieved  the  apparently  bigger  things;  and  it 
would  be  gray  angels  who  should  steady  the  army  of  men 
and  women  who  should  demand:  "What  next?  We 
want  another  great  task  to  do,"  looking  with  scorn  at 
a  clerk's  white  apron,  an  adding  machine,  a  modest  mil- 
linery store ! 

The  gray  angels  dyke  a  nation's  forceful  common  sense 
from  becoming  a  flood  of  useless  sentiment,  expending  it- 
self no  one  knows  where,  lost  to  practical  purposes.  It 
would  be  the  gray  angels  who  would  help  win  the  violet 
crown  because  they  gauge  nothing  in  misleading  blacks 
or  whites,  since  life  on  this  planet  is  not  expressed  in 
harsh,  sweeping  tones,  but  in  neutral  grays,  partaking  of 
both  white  and  black,  now  foggy  and  bewildering,  now 
serene  and  sweetly  sad  with  lavender  veiling,  or  rosy 
flecked  and  hopeful. 

Bliss  was  a  gray  angel  —  Ernestine,  Polly,  Collin  and 
Caleb  had  the  possibilities  of  becoming  them. 

..."  I  believe  I'm  a  gray  angel,  too,"  Thurley  thought 
with  sudden  delight. 

387 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

Thurley  had  lingered  at  the  Fincherie  until  the  time 
grew  so  short  she  knew  she  must  rush  into  her  concert 
work  without  her  customary  rehearsals.  She  had  word 
from  Bliss  Hobart  that  he  was  on  his  way  West  to  speak 
for  patriotic  matters  and  arrange  some  musical  things 
and  he  had  left  some  music  for  her  and  advice  as  to  a 
difficult  new  role. 

His  letter  did  not  create  in  Thurley  the  usual  rebel- 
lion against  Bliss's  reserved  self  or  her  own  foolish  pledge. 
She  was  too  busy  casting  ahead  for  coming  events,  won- 
dering how  her  opportunity  would  arrive  in  which  to 
prove  her  gray  angel  self  and  best  to  help  Bliss's  vision  to 
become  practically  demonstrated. 

She  said  good-by  with  reluctance  to  Dan's  son  and 
his  foolish,  ineffectual  little  mother  whose  head  was 
temporarily  in  a  whirl  of  excitement.  Lorraine  was  to 
face  readjustment  as  much  as  the  man  who  would  return 
to  civilian  life  minus  an  arm.  It  seemed  to  Thurley 
that  perhaps  here  was  where  gray  angel  demonstration 
must  begin  —  to  stop  Lorraine's  neglect  of  her  home 
and  child,  and  convince  her  that  when  Dan  came  back  ex- 
pecting to  find  the  same  gentle  wife  whose  house  was 
her  kingdom  and  whose  outlook  on  life  would  be  his  tem- 
pering element  —  she  must  not  fail  him. 

Yet  Lorraine  seemed  beyond  reason.  Josie,  Hazel, 
Cora  and  Owen,  with  another  handful  of  equally  feather- 
weight mental  calibre,  had  gone  on  their  way  rejoicing, 
they  had  had  a  farewell  banquet  with  speeches  made 

388 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

about  their  being  "  patriotic  pilgrims  "  and  had  fitted 
bags  presented  as  tokens  of  esteem  .  .  . 

Thurley  found  intriguers  and  hysterical  hikers  in  full 
swing  in  the  city,  but  it  was  good  to  have  a  hum  of  life 
and  progress  once  again.  Caleb  dropped  into  tell  of 
the  success  of  "  The  Patriotic  Burglar  "  which  had  gone 
into  six  editions. 

"  Have  you  read  it?"  he  asked,  snuggling  in  an  easy 
chair. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  What  do  you  hear  from 
Ernestine?  Collin  wrote  a  postal  which  I  found  when 
I  came  in  from  the  Corners." 

Caleb  laughed.  "  I  don't  think  Beethoven  and  Bach 
will  make  a  hit;  Ernestine  will  pack  up  her  music  in  her 
kit  bag  and  blow  back  .  .  .  but  you  ought  to  read  my 
book  —  it  was  like  rolling  off  a  log  to  write  it  — " 

Thurley  frowned. 

"  Any  other  time  it  would  have  been  too  thin  to  have 
got  by,  but  every  subway  advertises  it  and  there  is  a 
stampede  outside  the  bookstores.  I  have  raked  in  a 
harvest." 

The  gray  angel  of  Thurley  prompted  a  reproof. 

"  What's  wrong?  "  he  demanded  gaily.  "  You're  too 
pretty  to  scold." 

"  It  is  cheating  to  write  drivel  —  when  Bliss's  and 
Ernestine's  ideals  for  you  — " 

Caleb  rose.  "  I'm  off,"  he  had  a  petulant  air  like 
Mark's  flippant  unrest.  "  If  people  want  what  I  write, 
they  shall  have  it  I  We  may  as  well  have  as  good  a 
time  as  we  can ;  it  seems  to  be  the  main  thing  these  days." 

After  he  left  Thurley  sat  oblivious  to  telephones  or 
unanswered  mail,  forgetting  the  Corners  and  Miss  Clergy 
and  Ali  Baba's  pride  as  he  had  driven  her  to  the  station. 

389 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

She  was  considering  as  a  judicial  gray  angel  this  ques- 
tion of  eternally  having  a  good  time  which  was  a  cancer 
spot  in  national  common  sense. 

Now  that  the  tide  was  turning  rapidly  towards  peace 
and  victory,  a  call  was  being  made  so  stupendous  and 
half  mystical  that  perhaps  women  could  best  hear  and 
understand  since  their  ears  are  attuned  to  children's  un- 
worded,  sobbed  wants.  It  was  the  call  to  declare  them- 
selves as  gray  angels  and  to  work  together  for  the  ban- 
ishment of  the  good  time  menace,  to  show  the  world, 
non-fighting  and  veterans,  that  it  is  good  to  be  ordinary, 
to  return  to  "  life  as  usual  "  instead  of  staying  breath- 
less with  excitement,  unjustly  halo-clad,  scornful  of  hum- 
drum duties  and  rebelling  at  the  inevitable  readjust- 
ment. By  this  women  should  come  to  see  things  as  they 
are,  not  as  they  would  wish  them  to  be. 

Dusk  crept  on  Thurley  unawares.  She  started  up 
as  the  maid  came  in  to  hand  her  a  telegram.  She  knew 
before  she  opened  it.  Miss  Clergy  was  dead. 


390 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

"  She  went  to  sleep-like,"  AH  Baba  told  her,  after  the 
simple  funeral.  "  She  wasn't  what  you  would  call  in 
pain  —  just  sighing  and  calling  for  people  dead  these 
forty  years.  She  says  to  Hopeful,  '  The  Watcher  of 
the  Dead  has  seen  me  ' —  and  we  knew  then  it  was  the 
end." 

"  What  about  the  watcher  of  the  dead?  "  Thurley  said 
softly. 

"  The  watcher  must  have  some  one  to  keep  him  com- 
pany and  when  the  last  one  that  has  died  has  stayed 
with  him  long  enough  and  goes  away,  they  do  say  the 
watcher  goes  about  the  village  looking  into  faces  to  see 
in  which  lies  the  shadow  of  death  —  and  he  loses  no 
time  in  taking  him  so  that  he  will  have  company.  Miss 
Clergy  remembered  the  story.  She  went  to  sleep  sayin', 
1  Tell  Thurley  —  to  —  use  —  her  —  own  —  judg- 
ment.' ' 

"  Ali  Baba  —  did  she  — "  Thurley  grasped  his  arm. 

He  nodded.  "  Just  like  I  said  — '  Tell  —  Thurley  — 
to  —  use  —  her  —  own  judgment,' —  and  then  she  looks 
up  at  me  and  she  says,  *  An  hour's  drive,  Ali  Baba  — 
not  too  fast.'  '  His  rough  hand  was  across  his  eyes. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,  Ali  Baba,  that  she  knew  what 
she  was  saying?  " 

"  As  sure  as  I  am  what  you  are  askin',"  the  old  man 
answered. 

Miss  Clergy's  will  was  dated  the  year  that  Thurley 
went  with  her  to  New  York.  It  left,  requiring  neither 
bond  nor  security,  everything  to  Thurley  Precore. 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

But  the  excitement  over  the  death  and  the  disposal  of 
the  fortune  was  increased  by  Thurley's  prompt  use  of 
it.  Even  the  war  lost  its  prominence  when  Thurley 
in  remarkably  short  time  gave  out  a  statement  declaring 
her  intentions. 

Her  contracts  would  be  kept  but  after  the  present 
season  Thurley  Precore  was  to  retire  for  a  year  at  least, 
in  which  she  would  devote  herself  —  secretly,  she  whis- 
pered, "  to  being  a  gray  angel  and  helping  Bliss,"  but 
to  the  public  she  named  it  "  to  the  philanthropic  enter- 
prise which,  with  Miss  Clergy's  money,  was  to  be 
started." 

She  wrote  Bliss  Hobart  as  school-girlish  and  impulsive 
a  note  as  one  could  imagine,  setting  forth  her  gray 
angel  theories  in  superlative  fashion,  even  underlining 
and  putting  exclamation  points  in  pairs  and  punctuating 
sentences  by  a  wriggling  up  and  down  mark  which  she 
said  he  was  to  consider  as  "  a  grin." 

"  Of  course  you'll  be  rushed  to  death  when  this  reaches  you," 
she  concluded,  "  but  you  must  hear  me  out.  Remember,  I  listened 
to  all  you  told  me !  Never  could  I  spend  all  that  money  for  my- 
self nor  in  a  sense  would  it  be  right.  Miss  Clergy  should  have 
lived  down  her  disappointment,  married  and  raised  her  boys  to 
fight  and  her  girls  to  wait  and  serve.  Why  should  I,  stranger  that 
I  am,  use  the  money  for  personal  pleasures?  I  will  not  even  buy 
a  bankrupt  title  with  it."  Here  she  drew  a  very  large  "  grin  " 
mark. 

"  I  am  buying  all  the  deserted  lake  houses  —  we  have  begun  ne- 
gotiations for  them  and  together  with  the  Fincherie  there  will  be 
a  little  city  of  ex-soldiers  learning  new  trades,  forgetting  empty 
sleeves  and  wheel-chair  means  of  travelling,  shell  shock,  snagged 
souls  —  all  the  wilful  things  which  prevent  settling  down  to  every 
day  living. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Bliss  Hobart,  it  will  always  be  up  to  one-tenth 
of  the  world  to  look  after  the  other  nine-tenths  —  so  this  enter- 

392 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

prise  will  not  end  as  the  tapping  of  crutches  dies  away.  The  sol- 
diers must,  of  necessity,  come  first.  But  there  is  to  be  a  per- 
manent '  practical  art '  colony  there  —  to  teach  all  who  need  to 
be  taught  the  thing  best  fitted  for  him  —  or  her.  (Grin  mark.) 
There  are  to  be  '  hers  '  1 

"  Life  may  be  shorn  of  fineries  and  extravagances  and  it  may  be 
simple  —  but  it  need  never  be  sordid  and  unendurable  and  that  is 
what  I  shall  try  to  prove.  My  heart  is  set  on  having  flower  beds 
of  deep,  purple  violets  and  mignonette  for  the  lawns,  sun  dials  with 
comforting  mottoes  —  there  will  be  a  task  —  the  carving  of  them. 
I  want  the  one  before  the  Fincherie  itself  to  read: 

' '  And  as  our  years  do   run  apace, 
Let  us  love  God 
And  live  in  peace.' 

"  Do  you  like  it?     (Grin  mark.) 

"  I  shall  have  huge,  copper  lanterns  to  light  the  roads  at  night, 
there  must  be  yellow  ivy  and  gorse  about  the  walls  and  cool,  gray 
lavender  as  a  background  for  pink  ramblers  and  yellow  tea  roses 
and,  oh,  gray  angel,  I  must  have  a  wind  screen  of  willows.  I  shall 
build  a  great  archway  in  the  middle  of  the  estate  and  a  stone  fence 
encircling  it  all.  Over  the  archway  I  want  a  thick,  oak  slab  with 
this  motto  cut  in  by  a  master  hand :  '  God  gave  them  a  great 
thing  to  do  —  and  they  did  it.' 

"  In  each  house  there  shall  be  particular  equipment  for  partic- 
ular occupations.  Children's  theaters  —  and  fine  weaving  — 
carving  of  wood  and  ivory  and  copying  brocades.  Just  see  the 
work  to  be  done,  the  joy  of  it  —  and  the  pity,  too !  There  must 
be  a  bee  farm  and  a  poultry  annex  and  I've  a  regular  bag  of  tricks 
up  my  sleeve.  I've  Ali  Baba  as  overseer  —  Betsey  and  Hopeful 
as  managers  —  and  myself  (grin  mark)  to  demonstrate  the  prac- 
tical worth  of  your  vision. 

"  For  you  are  the  dreamer  and  I  the  doer.  We  are,  in  our  rela- 
tions, the  same  as  that  of  science  towards  theology:  '  Nous  nous 
saluons  mais  nous  ne  parlons  pas.'  Is  it  not  so?  (Wee  grin 
mark.)  You  speak  but  you  are  afraid  to  do  and  I  am  afraid  to 

393 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

speak  but  I  must  do.     There,  write  me  you  will  come  to  my  Finch- 
erie  and  see  my  children  and  give  us  your  blessing, 

"  THURLEY." 

She  received  her  answer  via  wire  the  night  she  re- 
turned to  New  York  unwillingly  to  sing  her  first  con- 
cert. 

"  Not  a  gray  angel  but  white.     Wait  until  I  can  say  not  write  it. 

"B.  H." 

All  New  York  whispered  that  "  the  Precore  voice  " 
was  more  ravishing  than  ever,  particularly  when  it  sang 
love  songs ! 

While  Thurley  bustled  about  between  her  season  and 
her  remodelling  of  the  lake  colony  and  assembling  her 
new  family,  the  original  family  underwent  some  thrilling 
events. 

Hobart  was  taken  unawares  with  a  fresh  budget  of 
duties  which  kept  him  West  without  respite,  although  he 
went  so  far  as  to  send  Thurley  numerous  flowergrams 
and  offer  donations  towards  her  Fincherie,  writing  notes 
in  which  he  demanded  more  details  as  to  the  work  and 
advice  as  to  her  career. 

Polly  Harris  had  a  mysterious  surprise  which  resolved 
itself  into  a  great  success.  It  was  not  the  grand  opera 
that  Polly  stubbornly  dreamed  of  during  the  lean  years 
of  struggle;  without  warning,  she  composed  and  had  pub- 
lished camp  songs  which  roused  the  country  to  topnotch 
enthusiasm.  They  were  jingles,  really,  but  with  sincere 
sentiments,  a  tinge  of  humor  and  a  vigorous  little  melody 
—  they  sprang  from  the  depths  of  Polly's  loyal  heart, 
bravely  relinquishing  opera  ambitions  because  "  a  song 
fights  as  well  as  an  army,"  she  decided,  locking  her 
attic  door  and  preparing  to  drudge. 

394 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  I  feel  light-headed,"  she  informed  Thurley  when 
she  came  to  the  latter's  apartment  to  tell  all  about  it. 
"  As  if  I  were  going  to  open  my  eyes  to  find  myself  in 
a  dentist's  chair,  following  the  taking  of  old  fashioned 
laughing  gas  while  I  lost  a  wisdom  tooth !  That  it  would 
be  the  same  '  'ammer,  'ammer,  'ammer  on  the  broad  'igh- 
way  '  for  yours  truly !  Oh,  don't  ask  how  I  wrote  them 

—  how  do  you  sing  or  Bliss  direct  —  or  Collin  paint?  " 
she  added  softly. 

"  Come,  sit  in  my  lap,  Polly,"  said  Thurley  suddenly. 
"  I've  always  wanted  to  have  you,  you're  such  a  feather- 
weight and  I'm  so  huge.  I  always  wanted  to  capture 
you  and  make  you  hear  me  out.  You  don't  know  how 
glad  I  am  for  you  and  what  wonderful  things  are  ahead 
for  every  one."  She  beckoned  so  enticingly  that  Polly, 
the  same,  unspoiled  Polly  in  brown  smock  and  shabby 
boots,  perched  herself  on  Thurley's  knee  while  they  talked 
it  all  out.  The  Fincherie  Colony  and  Hobart's  precious 
dreams,  the  useless,  selfish  work  Caleb  was  doing,  Ernes- 
tine's amusingly  complaining  letters,  Lissa's  lack  of  suc- 
cess in  finding  a  duke  or  a  blue-blooded  patroness, 
the  threat  that  she  might  have  to  cut  her  hair  short 
if  she  was  really  going  to  stay  —  what  would  become 
of  that  lazy  rascal  of  a  Mark?  —  and  here  was  Collin 
giving  no  one  a  hint  as  to  what  he  was  doing.  And 
then  Polly  flushed  and  she  said  awkwardly: 

"  Perhaps  he  will  come  to  care  a  little,  now,  Thurley 

—  success    sometimes    makes    people    seem    different  — 
more  desirable,  doesn't  it?     I  know  it  ought  not  to  be  the 
bait  —  but  when  you  have  cared  so  long  —  you  are  reck- 
less.     Money  never  brings  a  person  the  real  things,  does 
it?  "     And  Polly  began  to  sob,  as  she  had  refrained  from 
sobbing  for  years  while  Thurley  rocked  her  in  her  arms, 
playing  comforting  gray  angel  and  understanding  woman 

395 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

all  in  one.  They  ended  quite  normally  by  a  heated  argu- 
ment as  to  whether  Polly  should  or  should  not  —  now 
that  she  was  to  be  placed  on  a  pedestal  with  Francis  Scott 
Key  —  wear  a  distinctive  costume  while  she  toured  the 
country  and  sang  her  songs  —  say  a  bright  red  sailor  and 
a  blue  cloth  cape  with  a  single  line  of  white  braid  —  and 
didn't  she  feel  ashamed  to  make  such  distressing  faces 
because  Thurley  was  planning  a  pink  chiffon  evening  dress 
for  her  —  base  ingratitude  of  these  newly  arrived ! 

So  Polly  toured  the  country  in  the  costume  Thurley  de- 
signed, singing  her  songs  and  meeting  with  success,  while 
music  shops  plastered  their  windows  with  Polly  Harris' 
latest,  and  news  of  her  triumph  echoed  in  the  trenches  to 
startle  Ernestine  into  cabling  congratulations  and  Lissa 
into  groaning  in  envy.  Polly  was  to  join  Bliss  in  San 
Francisco  for  a  spring  campaign  and,  when  she  visited 
Thurley  at  the  Fincherie,  she  took  endless  photographs 
and  mental  notes  of  the  colony  with  which  to  regale  him, 
asking  if  there  was  any  special  message  Thurley  wished 
him  to  have. 

"  How  wonderfully  it  is  coming  on !  How  kind  every 
one  is  and  workmen  seem  to  do  wonders  in  no  time  !  We 
shall  have  the  last  house  restored  by  July  —  and  tell  him 
we  have  two  hundred  boys  here  and  they  say  they  never 
want  to  move  along — " 

"  I  mean  personal  message,"  Polly  interrupted. 

Thurley  shook  her  head. 

"  I'll  use  my  own  judgment,"  Polly  added,  not  know- 
ing how  dangerously  near  she  came  to  repeating  words 
of  grave  and  liberating  importance. 

The  third  event  of  the  family  happened  in  June  when 
Ernestine  and  Caleb  met  each  other  at  the  steamer  pier. 
Having  faced  reality  and  realized  what  she  was  not 

396 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

capable  of  doing,  Ernestine  was  flying  home  in  honest 
haste  to  try  to  do  what  she  felt  was  her  duty. 

She  looked  forward  to  meeting  Caleb  as  the  same 
sentimental  person  who  would  propose  to  her  before 
they  had  passed  down  the  gangway.  Ernestine  had  dis- 
covered that  reality,  while  a  stern  friend  at  first,  was 
a  sincere  and  lasting  one.  The  ooze  had  vanished  from 
her  scheme  of  things  since  she  faced  the  horrors  of  — 
not  war  —  but  of  the  jumblers-in  such  as  Lissa  and  Mark 
and  the  hysterical  young  things  from  Birge's  Corners. 
She  had  even  come  across  Hortense  Quinby  who  was 
occupied  by  making  intellectual  love  to  a  thick-set  young 
private  who  contemptuously  accepted  her  affection  with 
the  excuse,  "  An  educated  dame  is  better  than  no  one 
—  but  when  I  get  back  to  my  girl  in  Harlem  — "  while 
Hortense  told  herself  that  this  Jo  Carter  had  a  soul  above 
being  an  elevator  boy;  his  was  a  spirit  destined  to  lead 
men;  and  she  tried  to  check  his  constant  assault  on  the 
King's  English  and  planned  on  being  his  "  fairy  god- 
mother "  when  he  should  return  to  America !  Ernestine 
had  watched  with  disapproval  the  onslaught  of  debutantes 
upon  the  regulars  who  accepted  the  adoration  with  scorn- 
ful grins  and  conceited  smirks,  allowing  these  delicately 
bred  and  reared  young  creatures  who  had  been  so  bored 
or  misunderstood  by  their  families,  to  lavish  their  at- 
tentions on  them  unchecked.  She  had  seen,  by  way  of 
contrast,  the  capable,  heroic  men  and  women  who  man- 
aged with  admirable  tact  to  suppress  these  feverish  young 
things  from  doing  their  worst  and  yet  not  allow  them 
to  escape  without  a  whirl  at  the  grindstone.  Ernestine 
looked  upon  these  young  things  as  one  does  at  straggling 
boys,  stray  dogs  and  hoboes  who  invariably  follow  the 
wind-up  of  any  dignified  and  splendid  procession,  tagging 

397 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

after  and  convinced  in  their  own  minds  they  are  attract- 
ing as  much  attention  as  the  mounted  police  who  swish 
along  in  advance. 

Having  looked  honestly  at  reality  and  judged  it  fairly, 
Ernestine  had  honestly  judged  of  both  her  former  and 
her  present  self.  She  felt  she  could  never  return  to  the 
unreal,  intensive  selfishness  which  she  had  fostered  and 
excused  under  the  title  of  "  being  different  " —  that  she 
could  greet  Caleb  in  almost  flapper  fashion,  saying, 

"  Here  I  am,  ready  to  marry  you !  Let's  have  a  gen- 
eral confession.  First,  one  Caleb  Patmore  has  never 
done  his  best  work  —  but  he  will.  Secondly,  one  Ernes- 
tine Christian  has  been  a  neurotic,  selfish  soul  but  she 
is  going  to  reform." 

Caleb  met  her,  to  be  sure.  But  before  he  spoke  she 
knew  some  catastrophe  had  happened  in  his  affairs.  As 
he  piloted  her  to  her  apartment,  trying  to  ask  interested 
questions,  and  saying  that  she  looked  fagged  and  he 
thanked  heaven  she  was  not  going  for  public  talks, 
Ernestine  waited  for  him  to  speak  of  himself. 

To  her  amazement,  he  would  have  left  her  at  the 
doorway.  But  she  took  his  arm,  as  Thurley  might  have 
done,  in  impulsive  fashion  and  commanded  him  to  come 
inside. 

Rather  unwillingly,  he  obeyed,  telling  about  Thurley 
and  her  "  rather  far-fetched  scheme,"  and  Polly's  suc- 
cess and  her  tour  of  the  country  with  Bliss  who  must 
be  "completely  out  of  his  element  "  boosting  for  this  and 
that  and  actually  prophesying  a  near  and  sudden  peace. 
Had  she  seen  much  of  Mark?  How  was  Lissa  getting 
on?  And  where  was  Collin, —  no  need  for  him  to  rush 
over  to  fight  beside  bricklayers ! 

"  What  has  happened,  "  Ernestine  asked.  "  You  are 
trying  to  lie  to  me  —  by  silence.  Don't  —  don't  you 

398 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

care  any  more?"  feeling  a  reluctance  to  speak  of  her 
own  change  of  heart. 

"  Of  course,  but  you  can't  love  a  beggar,"  he  flung 
back  roughly.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  when  it's 
too  late  you've  come  back  prepared  to  marry  a  bank- 
rupt —  a  failure,"  his  teeth  gritted  together. 

"What  are  you  babbling  of?  Please  don't  be  like  a 
Henry  James  conversation,  say  it !  I've  learned  to  honor 
directness  of  speech  and  action." 

"  I'll  oblige  you  and  take  my  leave.  The  damned  pub- 
lic is  as  fickle  as  a  weather  vane.  They  raved  over  my 
'  Patriotic  Burglar  ' —  I  made  more  off  of  it  than  any 
three  of  my  other  books.  The  public  couldn't  get  enough 
of  it.  And  I  went  ahead,  as  I  always  do,"  this  with  in- 
solent assurance,  "  on  my  next  best  seller,  '  Military 
Molly ' —  no  plot  but  a  pretty  girl,  German  spy  and 
Yankee  hero  —  it  is  enough  for  these  days  —  there  was 
to  be  a  red,  white  and  blue  cover  on  it  and  Molly  in  her 
nursing  costume.  And  the  firm  refused  it!  They  dared 
to  say  the  tide  has  turned  against  war  fiction,  people  felt 
reality  too  keenly  to  want  imaginary  woes  and  victories 
pictured  for  them  —  they  said  that  to  me,  Caleb  Pat- 
more,"  he  was  unconscious  of  his  absurdity,  "  when  my 
books  have  made  more  money  for  them  than  any  other 
author  they  have.  They  said  it  was  thin  and  I  had  better 
take  a  long  rest  .  .  .  that  an  editor's  greatest  need  in 
the  world  was  to  discover  whether  or  not  an  author  was 
trying  to  kid  himself  and  to  disillusionize  him  as  quickly 
and  painlessly  as  possible  — "  he  tried  to  laugh. 

"  That  is  not  so  bad,"  Ernestine  said  quietly,  "  it  had 
to  come  some  time.  Rest  for  a  year  and  then  see  what 
your  viewpoints  are." 

"  But  I'm  stony  broke  !  I  never  dreamed  I'd  be  turned 
down!  They  dared  tell  me  the  story  had  nothing  to 

399 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

commend  it  save  questionable  cleverness  in  nomenclature. 
.  .  .  Why,  I  was  hard  to  convince  when  they  first  wrote 
me;  I  had  made  some  bad  plays  on  the  stock  market  — 
I  counted  on  '  Military  Molly  '  to  pull  me  out  of  the 
hole  and  my  next  book,  '  The  Battles  of  Billy  Girl,'  to 
get  me  back  to  where  I  was  a  year  ago.  I  guess  there 
will  never  be  any  more  of  my  books,  unless  some  one 
stakes  me  to  publish  independently  and  every  one  shies 
when  you  hint  of  it  ...  would  you,  Ernestine?" 

"  Not  if  you  were  never  to  speak  to  me." 

He  gave  a  half  snarl,  half  exclamation.  "  You  al- 
ways wanted  to  see  me  a  failure!  Enjoy  yourself," — 
picking  up  his  hat. 

"  Caleb,  I  came  back  because  I  was  not  needed  over 
there.  I  came  back  to  be  a  real  woman  —  and  my  first 
job  is  to  make  you  a  real  man.  I  shall  marry  you,  almost 
before  I  unpack  my  trunks,  and  proceed  to  show  you 
that  the  really  great  things  in  life  are  never  written  out; 
that  your  firm  have  had  the  courage,  no  matter  what 
their  motive,  to  show  you  the  truth,  and  your  wife  is 
going  to  see  that  you  follow  it!  " 

As  he  stared  at  her,  half  enraged  and  half  delighted, 
he  realized  that  here  spoke  a  new  and  rejuvenated  woman 
and  artist  combined.  The  clever,  sallow  face  was  blush- 
ing prettily  and  there  was  something  softly  beautiful  in 
the  dark  eyes. 

At  that  moment  neither  knew  they  were  about  to 
join  Thurley's  angel-band  and  with  the  gray  angels  not  to 
sing  —  but  to  do. 

"  Suppose  I'm  a  permanent  failure,  grumbling  and 
jealous  of  your  success  and  bitter  towards  the  world  at 
large?  You  want  to  take  such  a  risk?  And  it  is  a  risk, 
laugh  all  you  wish  and  shake  your  head,  I'm  terribly  done 

400 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

up,  feel  gone  to  bits,  brain  of  an  oyster  and  my  nerves 
are  shaky  — " 

"  You  remind  me  of  nothing  more  terrible,  Caleb,  than 
the  picture  over  which  the  world  has  often  smiled:  the 
tiny  lad  sitting  on  a  doorstep  and  murmuring  in  hopes 
cruel  relatives  will  overhear  and  be  grief-stricken  and 
remorseful,  '  I'm  going  into  the  garden  to  eat  worms!  ' 
And  we  all  know,  relatives  included,  what  a  stampede 
indoors  there  would  be  if  some  one  called  out,  '  But,  oh, 
Jack,  before  you  do,  let's  go  to  the  circus  and  have  pink 
lemonade  — '." 


401 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

Thurley,  Polly  and  Bliss  Hobart  were  taking  a  turn 
about  the  Fincherie  gardens  to  discuss  a  multitude  of 
detail,  whether  or  not  Caleb  and  Ernestine  Patmore, 
gay  deceivers  to  be  married  all  in  a  moment  and  never 
let  any  one  know,  would  visit  the  Fincherie  as  soon  as 
Ernestine's  letter  intimated.  Why  had  Collin  and  Mark 
stopped  writing?  Didn't  the  exhibition  of  doll  houses 
for  the  coming  Christmas  market  speak  well  for  the  work 
being  done?  And  if  Hobart  had  spoken  in  favor  of  the 
leather  department,  Polly  championed  the  wireless  school 
and  the  brass  and  copper  hand  industries.  She  had 
shown  favoritism,  as  well,  for  she  sang  three  songs  for 
those  boys  and  only  two  and  a  half  for  the  others. 

Thurley  drew  their  attention  to  a  newly  finished  sun 
dial.  "  You  see,"  she  said,  as  they  took  chairs  within 
a  summer  house,  "  it  is  getting  used  to  one's  self  that  is 
the  trick.  We  all  have  to  do  it  in  some  way  or  other  at 
some  time.  I  dare  say  if  one  were  born  with  four  fin- 
gers and  an  extra  one  appeared  without  warning,  it 
would  be  quite  a  task  to  know  how  to  provide  for  the 
newcomer  .  .  .  besides,  they  all  feel  it  has  been  worth 
while,"  she  added,  turning  her  eager,  flushed  face  towards 
Bliss  Hobart. 

"  Why  hasn't  the  town  put  up  a  statue  of  you  ? " 
asked  Polly.  "  Do  people  salaam  when  they  meet 
you?" 

"  Well,  they  don't  mind  saying  I  belong  to  Birge's 

402 


Corners  —  reward  sufficient."  Thurley  stood  up  to  wave 
a  welcoming  arm  to  a  small  person  in  flowered  organdie 
and  a  huge  shade  hat,  who  was  making  her  way  across 
the  lawn,  squired  by  her  todding  son. 

"  I  want  you  to  meet  Lorraine  Birge,"  she  explained 
swiftly.  "  Lorraine  is  my  right  hand  man  —  now."  She 
did  not  add  what  had  happened  —  the  awful,  furious  mo- 
ment when  Lorraine  was  summoned  home  from  public 
speaking  to  witness  the  result  of  Herta's  carelessness  re- 
garding Boy  —  the  fall  from  the  window  with  the  frac- 
tured arms  as  a  result.  It  had  banished  the  war-mad- 
ness; the  old,  gentle  Lorraine,  with  an  added  strength 
of  purpose  perhaps  born  of  her  tiny  sojourn  into  the 
world,  returned  for  all  time.  With  Thurley  as  her 
"  guardian  angel,"  she  once  more  recreated  her  house 
as  Dan  had  left  it  —  and  would  expect  it  —  nursing  her 
child,  shaking  her  head  firmly  when  committees  asked 
when  she  would  join  them  once  again ! 

Lorraine  hesitated  when  she  saw  the  strangers,  but 
Boy  ambled  along  to  garrote  Hobart's  watch  chain  and 
with  his  fingers  clutch  Polly's  red  hat  brim  so  there  was 
no  chance  for  further  reserve  and  the  quartette  sat  chat- 
ting of  the  Fincherie  work,  and  of  the  future  art  colony 
soon  to  be  in  evidence  until  the  chimes  struck  five  and  Lor- 
raine bundled  her  son  under  her  arm  and  made  for  her 
motor  car. 

"  Isn't  she  the  wife  of  —  of — "  Polly  asked  curiously. 

"  Of  Dan,"  Thurley  admitted.  "  She  most  surely  is 
—  and  we  are  the  best  of  friends.  Not  even  Dan  could 
come  between  us!  We  each  made  a  mistake,  and  then 
unmade  it,  and  that  inspired  us  with  mutual  pity  and 
admiration, —  understand?  " 

"When  are  you  going  to  sing  next?"  Bliss  Hobart 
asked. 

403 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  When  I  have  time !  Don't  bother  me  about  sing- 
ing. I'm  so  busy  and  so  happy  that  I  haven't  time  to 
plan." 

Ali  Baba,  important  in  a  new  uniform,  came  across 
the  lawn  to  tell  Thurley  the  New  York  train  had  brought 
her  four  guests. 

"  You'll  be  real  glad  to  see  three  of  them,  and  real 
sorry  to  see  the  fourth,"  he  whispered  patronizingly, 
"  the  fourth  is  that  artist  —  he's  blind !  " 

Polly  sprang  to  her  feet.  "  I  knew  it  —  I  knew  it," 
she  said  breathlessly. 

It  was  quite  true.  The  over  brilliant,  joyous  eyes 
faced  the  darkness  for  all  time.  Mark  Wirth  had  acted 
as  his  courier  and  as  the  trio  came  into  the  reception 
room,  Ernestine  and  Caleb  stood  in  the  background  and 
Collin  tried  to  smile  at  them  while  Mark  raised  his  hand 
to  suppress  their  exclamations. 

"  We've  come  to  belong  to  Ali  Baba's  forty  thieves," 
said  Ernestine,  to  break  the  silence.  "  We're  as  tired 
and  hungry  as  four  people  can  be.  Collin  has  splendid 
things  to  tell  you,  he  is  very  shy  about  letting  us  know 
how  wonderful  he  has  been."  Her  voice  broke  and  she 
looked  at  Caleb  to  take  up  the  burden. 

But  Caleb  was  staring  at  Collin,  whose  sensitive  face 
quivered  as  a  woman's  does  before  she  cries.  He  made 
no  response. 

Hobart  came  and  took  his  hand.  "  I'm  mighty  proud 
of  you,  old  man;  you  get  yourself  rested  up  and  forget 
the  haughty  beauties  waiting  to  be  painted  in  their  best 
togs.  .  .  .  You'll  have  to  be  a  sculptor  in  spite  of  your- 
self." 

"  The  master  said,  '  All  an  artist  needs  is  to  trust  his 
eyes,'  "  Collin  repeated. 

"  Ah,  but  his  inner  eyes  —  which  never  dim,"  Thur- 

404 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

ley  corrected,  coming  over  to  kiss  his  cheek.  "  Here  is 
Polly  waiting  to  kiss  you  on  both  cheeks.  Why,  Collin, 
you've  just  come  home  twice  as  precious;  that's  all,  isn't 
it?  —  just  come  home." 

Polly  stood  back,  afraid  that  his  hands  would  reach  up 
to  touch  her  cheeks  and  discover  the  tears. 

"  I  want  Polly."  Collin  said  suddenly.  "  Where  is 
she?" 

Hobart  gave  her  an  imperative  nudge. 

"  We  bother  Polly  from  being  her  best,"  he  said  softly. 
"  Let's  clear.  .  .  .  Polly's  the  only  one  to  make  Collin 
get  used  to  himself." 

In  the  late  evening,  Thurley  and  Mark  came  back 
into  the  house,  after  Mark  had  "  talked  her  head  off  " 
in  the  garden  and  as  she  said  good  night,  she  added, 

"  To  think  you're  going  to  do  something  that  will 
make  the  worth-while  world  claim  you !  " 

"  If  it's  really  not  too  late  to  study  law,"  he  lapsed 
back  into  uncertainty. 

"  I've  come  to  believe  that  nothing  worth  while  is 
ever  too  late,  it  may  not  be  in  just  the  way  we  had 
planned  or  preferred,  but  if  the  right  effort  is  made, 
the  result  follows.  .  .  .  Mark,  what  wonderful  things 
another  person's  tragedy  can  inspire  I  " 

"  It  has  been  Collin  mostly  —  and  Lissa's  awful  selfish- 
ness! Besides,  Ernestine  is  really  human  and  Caleb 
follows  her  about  like  a  lamb.  She'll  have  him  writing 
something  ripping  if  he's  not  careful." 

Hobart  was  reading  in  the  study  and  he  came  in  to 
where  they  were  and  said  that  Thurley  was  too  fagged  to 
stay  up  another  moment. 

"  Which  means  you  want  to  talk  to  Mark  and  being 
a  woman,  I'm  a  hindrance,"  she  laughed,  slipping  away. 

405 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

In  her  room,  she  found  Polly  a  funny  muddle  of  rose- 
colored  negligee,  handkerchiefs  rolled  into  moist  little 
balls,  and  curl  papers,  oddly  enough !  Ernestine  was  try- 
ing to  argue  with  her,  but  Polly's  head  was  among  the 
cushions  of  Thurley's  chaise  longue  and  only  smothered 
sobs  escaped  at  intervals. 

Ernestine  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  Thurley  entered. 
"  Do  make  her  behave !  Polly  dear,  you  must  be  brave, 
as  you  used  to  be  about  your  own  affairs.  We  all  know 
how  hard  you  care.  We  just  want  you  to  keep  on  caring, 
and  it  might  have  been  worse.  Why,  Collin's  soul  isn't 
bruised;  now  Caleb's  was,"  she  added  honestly. 

"  How  did  he  ever  marry  you?  "  Polly  managed  to  ask. 

"I  ordered  it,  as  you  must  —  mustn't  she,  Thurley? 
It's  her  duty." 

Thurley  slipped  down  beside  Polly.  "  A  gray  angel 
can  ask  a  man  to  marry  her  as  easily  as  she  can  knit 
him  a  sweater,"  she  whispered.  "  Collin  needs  you;  he 
must  use  his  talents  wisely  and  only  some  one  who  really 
will  belong  to  him  can  make  him  prove  his  worth." 

After  Polly  halfway  promised  that  she  would  find  the 
shortest,  most  forceful  method  of  requesting  marriage  to 
a  blind  hero  who  could  become  a  sublime  poet  in  death- 
less stone  and  bronze,  Ernestine  departed  to  find  Caleb 
in  a  changed,  softened  mood  in  which  he  admitted  that 
when  a  chap  witnessed  such  a  tragedy  —  and  such  rose- 
colored  clouds  encircling  it,  who  saw  what  Thurley  had 
done,  forgetting  herself  and  her  career,  and  the  men 
at  the  Fincherie  quietly  getting  used  to  themselves  and 
'  life  as  usual '  all  about,  it  made  him  realize  what  a 
smashing  story  could  be  written  about  such  real  people. 
Caleb  had  awakened  to  his  possibility  of  being  a  vigorous 
realist. 

Thurley  turned  off  the  lights  in  her  room  and  opened 

406 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

the  window  to  commune  with  the  genial  moon.  She  won- 
dered if  Bliss  Hobart  would  ever  be  in  dire  need  of  gray 
angel  courtship.  .  .  .  The  memory  of  Miss  Clergy's 
message,  "  Tell  Thurley  to  use  her  own  judgment," 
caused  the  color  to  flood  her  tired  cheeks  .  .  .  she  al- 
most hoped  he  would  not  —  it  would  be  so  very  splendid 
to  have  Bliss  Hobart  plead  his  own  cause  .  .  .  she  was 
only  a  small  part  gray  angel,  she  admitted,  she  was 
mostly  —  just  Thurley ! 


407 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

Thurley  returned  to  New  York  in  October  to  sing  some 
engagements.  The  public  clamored  for  her  until  one 
engagement  seemed  naturally  to  lead  to  another  and  after 
the  signing  of  the  armistice,  Thanksgiving  Day  con- 
fronted her,  recalling  her  to  the  Fincherie  to  help  the  cele- 
bration to  be  as  perfect  as  possible.  Besides,  Lorraine 
had  written  that  Dan  was  home,  a  slight  heart  trouble  as 
the  reason,  but  otherwise  the  same  splendid  Dan,  and 
Lorraine  was  waiting  to  confide  in  Thurley  all  that  had 
happened. 

"  So  you  cannot  be  induced  to  stay  any  longer?  "  Bliss 
asked,  as  she  came  into  his  studio  to  say  good-by. 

"  I'm  not  as  needed  here  as  at  the  Fincherie  —  and 
then,  Dan  Birge  is  home  and  I  want  to  see  him,"  she  ad- 
mitted honestly.  "  So  don't  dare  dig  up  another  date 
for  me  until  after  the  New  Year.  I  must  stay  at  home 
that  long  for  I'm  to  be  Mrs.  Santa  Claus,  you  see;  even 
he  has  been  ousted  by  the  new  women!  " 

"  I  won't  see  you  for  a  long  time,"  he  objected  drolly. 
"  And  you  look  to-day  like  the  little  girl  of  six  years  ago 
when  you  explained  how  you  wintered  with  the  circus 
and  then  sang  hymns  until  I  thought  I  had  discovered  the 
Yogi  trick  of  having  one's  soul  slip  out  of  the  body  and 
wander  at  will  —  that  I  was  listening  at  Saint  Peter's  key- 
hole — " 

"  So  I  please  you,"  she  answered  seriously. 

"  Of  course.  I  knew  you  would,"  his  hand  touched 
the  little  idol  which  had  always  remained  on  his  desk. 

408 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  It  was  just  that  I  dreaded  the  inevitable  transition 
period;  so  many  women  never  rise  above  it  to  find  the 
gray  angel  part  of  themselves  — " 

"  Ernestine  did,"  Thurley  murmured. 

"  Ah,  she  is  a  gray  angel  of  gray  angels !  Fancy  her 
making  Caleb  stop  his  fulsome  tales  and  write  real 
things!" 

"But  she  hasn't  played  a  concert!  Must  she  sacri- 
fice her  talent,  too?  " 

"  No,  it  is  like  anything  worth  while.  It  takes  much 
personal  endeavor  to  get  it  started.  When  Caleb  has 
begun  to  wear  alpaca  house-coats  and  put  bird-houses 
in  all  his  trees  and  talk  of  the  uplift  and  vegetable  diets, 
Ernestine  can  safely  scamper  back  to  her  piano  and  play 
as  she  never  has  before.  .  .  .  They,  too,  are  proving 
my  vision,"  he  added. 

"  So  is  Collin  with  his  wife  Polly,  and  Mark,  so 
would  Sam  Sparling  had  he  been  able  to  stay  among  us. 
It  is  a  simple  thing  to  prove  when  you  really  understand 
the  compensations." 

"  And  Mark  has  proved  the  falseness  of  Lissa's  love 
and—"  . 

"  You  are  talking  like  an  old-fashioned  valentine. 
Dear,  dear,  this  will  never  do."  She  fastened  her  dull 
red  cape  with  its  banding  of  fur. 

"  Don't  go,  I've  so  many  things  to  tell  you.  I  used 
to  be  afraid  to  whisper  my  ideas  to  any  one;  therefore, 
they  were  useless.  And  now,  I  simply  won't  allow  my- 
self to  keep  an  idea  over  night.  I  must  tell  it  to  you 
—  and  have  you  prove  it  out.  .  .  .  Thurley,  do  you  re- 
member the  day  at  Blessed  Memory  when  we  walked  to 
the  sea  and  — " 

She  looked  at  her  watch.  "  I  must  go,  Bliss,  I've 
promised  to  say  good-by  to  Caleb  and  Ernestine  and  to 

409 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

see  how  much  Collin  has  done  on  his  statue  —  Polly  says 
it  is  wonderful." 

He  escorted  her  to  the  door,  but  before  he  opened  it 
he  said  in  serious  tone,  "  Are  you  going  to  flirt  with  Dan 
again?  " 

"  Always !  I  adore  him  as  I  adore  no  one  else !  He 
is  an  inspiration  and  a  Punch  and  Judy  show  all  in  one," 
adding  as  she  slipped  away,  "  Perhaps  we  were  talking  at 
cross  purposes.  I  mean  Dan  junior!  " 

The  night  she  returned  to  the  Fincherie  she  gave  a 
concert  for  All  Baba  and  his  Forty  Thieves  in  the  newly 
added  community  room,  some  of  the  village  hearing  of 
the  event  and  straying  in  to  listen. 

Not  until  the  end  of  the  programme  did  she  see  Dan 
Birge  and  Lorraine.  Impulsively,  Thurley  sang,  "  Com- 
ing Through  the  Rye,"  looking  at  them  in  whole-souled 
friendship. 

As  the  hall  was  clearing,  Thurley  flew  down  to  find 
them. 

"  Oh,  Dan,"  she  held  on  to  his  hands,  "  it  is  your- 
self for  certain,  I'm  so  terribly  glad!  "  She  read  in  his 
dark  eyes  the  shadow  which  will  rest  on  most  of  those 
who  have  fought  and  returned,  a  dangerous  expression 
liable  to  turn  into  haunted,  ugly  memories,  desperate 
longings  and  unwise  impulses. 

Lorraine  wondered  if  Thurley  read  the  same  problem 
which  she  had  discerned  even  while  he  was  kissing  her 
his  welcome. 

"  It  is  mighty  good  to  be  back,"  was  all  he  said.  "  A 
man  doesn't  know  what  he  is  going  to  miss  until  it  is  too 
late.  But  you've  done  a  wonderful  thing.  Lorraine 
tells  me  it  is  to  be  permanent."  Yet  the  dangerous 
expression  of  his  eyes  seemed  to  ridicule  his  own 
praise. 

410 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"Don't  you  think  Lorraine  looks  well?"  Thurley 
asked  to  cover  the  pause. 

"  Yes,  Lorraine  is  always  the  same,  thank  fortune ! 
The  Boy  is  the  only  one  who  has  changed." 

Lorraine  flushed,  thinking  all  in  an  instant  of  how  dan- 
gerously near  she  had  come  to  being  forever  changed, 
emancipated,  as  Hortense  Quinby  would  have  called  it, 
leaving  her  fireside  untended  to  pursue  phantoms  of  rest- 
less imagination.  She  smiled  in  understanding  at  Thur- 
lay  as  Dan  began  to  say  what  a  splendid  overseer  AH 
Baba  made  and  how  good  it  was  to  see  the  old  town  and 
surely  if  Miss  Clergy  could  understand,  she  would  be 
well  pleased  with  Thurley's  disposal  of  her  fortune.  As 
he  talked,  he  rested  his  weight  first  on  one  foot  and  then 
the  other,  his  eyebrows  twitching  and  his  hands  working 
together  and  when  Thurley  asked  as  to  his  own  condi- 
tion, he  was  brusque  almost  to  rudeness  in  refusing  to 
consider  it  of  importance. 

"  If  I  had  only  got  bumped  good  and  proper,"  he 
declared,  "  I  wouldn't  mind,  but  I  hate  this  sort  of  air 
cushion,  cruel  invaliding  of  a  man.  ...  Of  course  you 
can't  understand  because  you  haven't  been  into  things. 
It's  the  same  as  a  race  horse  sold  to  a  cabstand  and  made 
to  trot  slowly  to  the  station  with  a  burden  of  nervous 
spinsters!  " 

Thurley  understood  the  meaning  of  his  expression  and 
the  readjustment  he  must  face.  She  mercifully  let  Dan 
go  on  his  way,  while  Ali  Baba  swept  down  on  her  to  re- 
port all  that  had  and  had  not  happened  during  her  ab- 
sence. 

Dan  and  Lorraine  walked  home  that  mild  November 
night,  Lorraine  clinging  to  his  arm  until  he  slouched  his 
shoulder  as  if  the  attitude  annoyed  him. 

"  Does  it  make  you  tired?  "  she  asked  wistfully. 

411 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

"  No,  it  seems  too  damned  civilized,"  he  flung  back  to 
her  dismay. 

"Why  — Dan!" 

He  halted  to  light  a  cigar  before  he  tried  to  explain, 
then  walked  with  long  strides  and  a  slight  scuffling  of 
the  feet.  Lorraine  had  to  half  run  in  order  to  keep 
abreast. 

"  Dan,  tell  me,  is  there  something  you  are  keeping 
back?  I'm  brave,  I'm  really  braver  than  you  think,  I  can 
understand  things,  truly,  I  can,  tell  me  — "  She  was 
trying  not  to  cry. 

"  Nothing  more  than  any  man  has  to  face  when  he's 
been  in  the  thick  of  things  and  returns  to  a  two-by-four 
existence.  Can  you  go  into  the  store  to  listen  to  women 
haggle  over  prices  and  men  fuss  about  neckties,  when  all 
of  you  tingles  with  what  you've  seen  and  helped  to  do? 
It  is  just  that  you've  grown  beyond  your  home  town. 
Yet  the  heart-part  of  you  wants  to  come  back  to  it  and 
stay  loyal  and  content  .  .  .  maybe  that's  not  clear  —  it's 
such  a  queer  thing.  We  beggars  moon  about  homesick- 
ness and  sit  about  campfires  and  almost  crucify  ourselves 
with  longing  to  be  home  and  our  letters  promise  you  it 
will  be,  '  Home,  Hoboken  or  hell '  by  this  time  or  that. 
.  .  .  You'd  think  we'd  rush  home  and  remain  one  glad 
grin!  But  we  don't.  Part  of  us  does  —  the  heart-part 
of  us  that  demands  admiring  relatives  —  the  very  dear- 
est wife  and  child  in  the  world,"  he  reached  out  to  touch 
her  arm  as  he  almost  strode  by  her,  "  but  there  is  an- 
other part  of  us  —  whether  wounded  or  not,  that  part  is 
there  —  the  primitive  part  that  has  to  be  roused  in  order 
to  go  over  the  top, —  it  can't  demobilize  by  an  officer's 
command,  it  has  to  die  down  —  slowly  —  just  wear  away, 
a  fretting,  gnawing  longing  to  go  shoot  up  the  town,  wal- 
low in  mud  as  you  hike,  hike,  hike  after  some  one  — 

412 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

catch  the  some  one  —  maim  him  .  .  .  maybe  kill  him," 
he  was  talking  more  to  himself,  u  to  have  the  boom-boom 
of  guns  waken  you  and  put  you  to  sleep,  see  slaughter 
about  you  and  chaos  and  every  universal  law  turned  inside 
out  and  yourself  in  the  center  of  it  ...  and  that  part 
will  have  to  be  conquered  by  every  true  soldier.  And 
who  is  going  to  help  him?  He'll  love  home  folks  the 
same  and  all  the  civilized  comforts  and  fun-making  —  but 
sometimes  that  other  part  of  him  will  battle  against  being 
chained  back  into  silence.  It's  the  same  as  the  call  of  the 
East  or  the  mountaineer's  nostalgia  when  he  has  to  live  in 
flat  country,  a  state  of  mind,  Lorraine;  don't  be  fright- 
ened, I  shouldn't  have  bothered  you  with  it  — " 

They  had  reached  their  gate  and  Dan  flung  it  open 
with  a  clatter. 

"  Let's  sit  out  on  the  steps  for  awhile,  will  you?  "  he 
urged.  "  Four  walls  stifle  me.  If  I  was  sure  of  my 
nerve,  I'd  run  the  car  until  morning  through  dark  roads 
—  fast  as  the  wind  — "  He  gave  a  jangling  laugh  as  he 
settled  himself  on  the  steps. 

"  Poor  Dan,"  Lorraine  sobbed,  trying  to  gather  all  of 
him  in  her  arms. 

u  Poor  little  Lorraine,  you  can't  understand.  A  fine 
mess  I've  been  for  you  anyhow,  first  trying  not  to  love 
you,  not  understanding  nor  appreciating  you;  then  when 
Boy  came  and  I  knew  your  worth  and  my  love  for  you 
and  what  a  splendid  pal  Thurley  was,  but  just  a  pal,  and 
then  the  war,  and  now  — " 

"  But  I  do  understand,"  she  told  him  swiftly,  "  I  do, 
indeed.  .  .  .  Dan,  you  don't  know  all  that  has  hap- 
pened —  about  me.  They'll  tell  you  fast  enough,  so  let 
me  prepare  you.  When  you  were  gone,  instead  of  griev- 
ing and  waiting,  I,  too,  found  a  primitive  part  of  me  ... 
it  was  the  women  all  about  me  that  roused  it,  the  women 

413 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

going  overseas,  making  speeches,  parading  in  uniforms  — 
and  I  deliberately  neglected  our  boy !  Yes,  I  did !  Ask 
father,  for  he  disapproved  but  I  would  not  listen.  It 
was  all  something  I  don't  quite  understand  now,  but  a 
mighty  powerful  something  while  it  lasted,  and  it  was 
Thurley  who  taught  me  the  lesson,"  Lorraine  continued 
in  her  sweet,  even  voice,  neither  sparing  herself  nor 
softening  the  details.  Finally,  she  ended, 

"  Even  now,  loving  you  a  thousand  times  harder  and 
adoring  Boy,  content  always  to  be  the  homemaker,  happy 
in  it,  there  is,  sometimes,  a  faint  longing  to  go  forth  and 
do,  what  shall  I  name  it?  And  so,  I  do  understand  your 
primitive  part,  Dan,  and  I  shall  be  patient  with  it.  ... 
Perhaps  it  was  worth  the  making  the  mistake  to  be  able 
to  understand  you." 

He  gathered  her  in  his  arms.  "  Lorraine,"  he  whis- 
pered, "  we  both  understand  — " 

So  they  sat  like  two  jolly,  sentimental  ghosts,  until 
dawn  filtered  through  dark  clouds,  talking  as  they  had 
never  talked  before,  of  intangible,  personal  doubts  and 
resolves,  of  many  happy  things  to  come  and  of  the  mis- 
takes which  lay  behind. 

"  You  know  the  feeling,  Dan !  You  have  been  big  and 
keen  enough  to  analyze  it,"  Lorraine  summarized. 
"  Now  help  other  men  to  become  used  to  '  life  as  usual.' 
Thurley  calls  stay-at-homes  and  quiet  workers  '  gray 
angels '  because  we  are  considered  ineffectual,  simply 
keeping  things  going.  You  can  be  a  gray  angel,  Dan. 
It's  the  most  peaceful  feeling  in  the  world!  Help  the 
boys  at  Thurley's  Fincherie  to  be  average  men,  neither 
heroes  nor  martyrs,  talk  to  them  as  only  a  man  who  is 
one  of  them  can  talk, —  there  lies  your  duty  and  your 
salvation." 

"  I  will,"  Dan  promised,  "  if  you  will  talk  to  me!  " 

414 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  Fincherie  Christmas  tree  had  been  a  great  suc- 
cess with  a  Mrs.  Santa  Claus  in  a  foam  of  tulle  and  lace 
instead  of  an  apple-dumpling  gentleman  in  a  red  jerkin 
and  leather  boots. 

Every  one  had  everything,  so  the  rumor  went,  and 
Thurley  sang  carols  until  she  repeated  "  God  Rest  Ye, 
Merry  Gentlemen  "  for  the  third  time  and  fled  in  self- 
defence. 

Bliss  Hobart  had  come  into  the  Corners  unexpectedly 
that  morning  and,  after  Thurley's  exit,  he  stood  up  to 
suggest  three  cheers  for  the  Fincherie  gray  angel,  which 
were  given  by  a  happy,  well  fed  community  who  began  to 
think  about  the  joys  of  sleep. 

Ali  Baba,  who  had  always  placed  Hobart  high  in  per- 
sonal esteem,  tramped  over  to  inform  him  that  Thurley 
was  in  the  little  breakfast  room  of  the  original  Fin- 
cherie. 

Hobart  moved  in  that  direction  with  alacrity.  He 
found  Thurley  sorting  over  a  bundle  of  letters. 

"  If  you  hadn't  come  to  the  Fincherie,"  she  began,  "  I 
should  have  come  to  New  York  to  ask  you  what  to  do 
with  these  people?  "  She  held  out  some  of  the  letters. 

He  glanced  at  them.  "  Oh,  managers  will  badger  any 
one  who  has  been  a  gold  mine  —  that's  to  be  expected. 
I,  myself,  was  to  make  a  faint  protest  about  too  much 
retirement,  but  when  Mrs.  Santa  Claus  has  been  a  real 
joy  spreader,  it  isn't  fair  to  harass  her,  is  it?  " 

"  None  of  you  can  bother  me  overly  much.  I'm  re- 

415 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

solved  to  sing  just  enough  to  make  people  always  want 
me,  and  live  enough  to  be  able  to  sing  my  best.     There  !  " 

"  May  you  follow  that  advice !  But  let's  talk  about 
sentimental  things.  I  always  find  myself  slipping  this 
time  of  the  year."  He  sat  beside  her. 

"  Stoical  dreamer!  I'm  just  beginning  to  understand 
you." 

'  You  didn't  give  me  a  Christmas  present." 

'  You  didn't  give  me  one,"  she  began. 

But  he  drew  a  small  box  from  his  pocket  and  pre- 
sented it. 

'*  Why,  Bliss !  "  She  was  too  pleased  to  conceal  her 
delight.  She  opened  it  to  find  a  locket  of  palest  gold  with 
a  fine,  shining  chain.  The  locket  yielded  to  the  pressure 
of  her  thumb  and  within  was  space  for  some  loved  one's 
face,  while  on  the  other  side  was  made  in  bas  relief  an 
enamelled  violet  crown. 

'  You  think  I  —  really  —  have  — "  she  began. 

"  I  do,  and  I  think  I  really  want  you  to  marry  me,"  he 
said  very  positively.  "  I  don't  want  you  to  answer  by 
quoting  a  half  mad  woman's  request  made  to  an  untutored 
girl.  Will  you  marry  me,  Thurley,  battered  old  dreamer 
of  nearly  forty  who  hadn't  the  courage  to  put  into  exe- 
cution what  he  thought,  who  had  to  tell  it  to  a  gray  angel 
who  went  and  did?  Will  you?  " 

"  Let's  talk  about  Ernestine  and  Caleb's  new  book;  or 
Collin's  statue  of  Polly  that  is  so  marvellous,  or  Mark, — 
did  you  know  he  really  is  on  the  road  to  right?  Let  me 
tell  about  Dan,  how  invaluable  he  has  become  to  every 
one  in  the  town,  saying  just  the  right,  '  Steady,  mates,'  to 
the  boys  up  here,  going  on  in  his  business,  loving  Lor- 
raine a  trifle  harder  than  ever  and  keeping  a  weather  eye 
out  for  town  improvements.  And  did  you  hear  about 
Hortense  Quinby?  She  has  killed  herself — " 

416 


"  I  can  wait  an  additional  ten  minutes,"  he  conceded; 
"  what  about  Hortense?  " 

"  The  boy  she  fancied  was  in  love  with  her  married  his 
own  sweetheart  without  delay  and  Hortense  ended  it  in  a 
foolish,  mad  fashion !  You  know  how  she  was  —  how 
such  women  are  — " 

"  Better  out  of  the  game,"  Hobart  commented  grimly. 

"  It  touches  me,  not  the  tragedy  itself,  but  the  wasted 
life.  .  .  .  Bliss,  do  you  know  that  nearly  anything  under 
the  sun  can  be  readjusted  satisfactorily  if  people  will  only 
be  honest  regarding  the  facts  concerning  it?  You  call 
fame  the  violet  crown  and  I  call  the^ stay-at-homes  the 
gray  angels;  you  say  true  artists  are  a  vanguard  —  fine 
sounding  names!  But  there  is  nothing  new  about  it,  is 
there  ?  The  idea  of  substituting  one  idea,  theory  or  name 
for  another  to  act  as  a  rejuvenation  of  the  brain  and  keep 
inspiration  of  the  heart  aglow  began  before  the  days  of 
the  pyramids!  It  is  necessary  to  keep  interest  top  hole 
and  while  the  basis  of  it  is  almost  hallucination  and  it  may 
tend  towards  madness,  the  advantages  do  outweigh  the 
tendencies.  The  name  —  the  violet  crown,"  she  caressed 
the  locket  with  her  hands,  "  spurs  me  on  to  be  a  gray 
angel  and  that  name  has  comforted  Polly,  Lorraine, 
Ernestine  —  and  will  many  others.  To  belong  to  the 
vanguard  of  civilization  —  what  strange  intoxication  is 
there  in  the  title  !  —  to  battle  with  art-intrigues, —  roman- 
tic phrase !  I  could  never  be  without  it.  Bliss,  what 
oddities  human  beings  are  — " 

"  And  now,  will  you  marry  me?  "  he  asked  meekly. 

"  Lissa  has  failed  to  find  a  duke  and  the  Hotel  Par- 
ticular is  for  sale;  she  staked  everything  on  winning  a 
title  or  a  patroness.  What  will  become  of  her?  " 

"  Unfortunately  life  travels  so  much  more  swiftly  than 
justice,  I  am  afraid  she  may  find  another  loophole  of 

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THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

escape  .  .  .  such  people   often   do.  ...  But   will   you 
marry  me?  " 

"  And  I  find  myself  growing  as  particular  as  Dorothy, 
wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Brown,  who  wished  her  '  shewes  to 
be  eythar  pinke  or  blewe,'  "  she  continued,  "  for  I  can- 
not — " 

"  I  will  not  be  cheated  of  another  moment  —  answer 
me." 

"  You  love  me,  that  way?  "  she  asked  gravely. 
"  All  ways.     Surely,  Miss  Clergy's  promise  — " 
"  It  is  not  that,"  she  admitted,  "  for  when  she  died  she 
left  me  the  message,  '  Tell  Thurley  to  use  her  own  judg- 
ment.'    It  is  not  that." 

"  Then  what  —  unless  you  don't  love  me?  " 
"  A  great  disillusionment  waits  for  you,"  she  said  hon- 
estly. "  I  am  only  a  womanly  hypocrite.  I  am  not 
worthy  of  the  violet  crown  nor  the  vanguard.  I'm  as 
simple  hearted  as  Lorraine  and  far  more  stupid  when 
you  come  to  know  the  real  me.  ...  I  have  always  loved 
you.  I  flirted  only  to  see  if  it  would  not  rouse  the  man 
of  you  to  protest.  I  let  Lissa  influence  me,  harm  my 
voice,  color  my  notions,  to  see  if  you  would  not  speak  out 
as  '  my  man,'  not  my  singing  teacher,  my  master  critic. 
...  I  tried  in  every  avenue  I  could,  Bliss,  to  make  you 
care.  Finally,  you  told  me  your  vision  and  the  greatest 
joy  of  it  was  not  the  vision  but  the  thought  you  were 
sharing  it  with  me.  I  told  myself,  '  at  last  I  have  some- 
thing to  work  for,  something  with  which  I  can  tempt  his 
interest  —  bait  for  his  affection  ' —  you  see?  So  I  set  to 
work  to  live  according  to  your  ideals,  not  that  I  did  not 
believe  it,  but  because  you,  your  own  self,  had  told  me  of 
it  and  it  was  your  fondest  wish  to  see  it  realized.  .  .  . 
Miss  Clergy's  death  brought  me  the  fortune  .  .  .  the 

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THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

glorious  ending  of  the  war  my  opportunity  .  .  .  and  so 
on.  Now  you  say  you  love  me.  And  I  love  you.  But  I 
warn  you  that  all  your  visions  and  ideals  mattered  not  so 
much  as  the  fact  of  your  sharing  them  with  me,  the  near- 
est I  had  ever  come  to  being  essential  to  some  one,  belong- 
ing to  some  one  —  as  I  fancied  in  the  old  circus  days 
when  I  played  the  bearded  lady  was  my  mother  and 
the  animals  my  brothers  and  sisters.  F- funny,  isn't  it? 
Well,  am  I  altogether  too  disappointing  —  clay  toes  will 
peep  out  but  it  is  better  you  should  see  them  now  —  not 
later."  She  waited  his  verdict,  her  head  tilted  defiantly 
and  the  glorious,  blue  eyes  smiling  bravely. 

He  did  not  hesitate.  "  Do  you  know  a  man's  greatest 
joy  is  to  discover  the  one  he  loves  best  of  every  one  is  not 
all  gray  angel,  that  he  will  not  have  to  exist  on  the 
heights,  even  though  he  is  prepared  to  break  masculine 
precedent  and  do  so,  but  a  real  woman  with  adorable 
weaknesses  and  amusing  faults,  spasms  of  '  intuition  '  and 
bothers  about  becoming  hats  and  concern  as  to  the  said 
man's  habit  of  not  wearing  overshoes  —  that  she  will  not 
scorn  a  broad  shoulder  to  weep  on  if  the  cook  leaves 
unceremoniously,  nor  a  bit  of  domination  when  it  comes 
to  selecting  the  right  school  for  the  boy  or  the  number  of 
frocks  for  the  girl's  coming  out?  Now,  I've  matched 
clay  toes  with  you,  most  delightful  lover's  game  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  Let  me  whisper  something  else,  Thurley;  I 
was  growing  afraid  of  you.  I  thought  I  had  better  cap- 
ture you  while  you  were  content  to  be  merelv  a  gray 
angel  lest  you  become  the  shining,  white  spirit  of  the  van- 
guard and  such  a  happening  be  made  impossible." 

Without  waiting  for  her  approval,  he  took  her  in  his 
arms. 

Making  the  nightly  rounds  to  see  if  the  windows  were 

419 


THE  GRAY  ANGELS 

properly  fastened,  Ali  Baba  paused  in  the  offing.  He 
glanced  up  at  the  mistletoe  under  which  he  had  happened 
to  halt  and  smiled  with  sentimental  satisfaction. 

"  Land  sakes  and  Mrs.  Davis,"  he  chuckled,  "  I  guess 
Miss  Abby  was  dead  to  rights  when  she  left  it  to  Thur- 
ley's  judgment!  " 


THE    END 


420 


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